


Call it Patience, Call it Hope

by queenofchildren



Series: Big Damn Regency AU [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Drama Llama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Inspirational Speeches, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 60,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With both parents passed away and a younger sister to support, Bellamy Blake may not have drawn the easiest lot in life. But he had a plan: Rise through the ranks of the Royal Navy, find a good husband for his sister, make Lieutenant or maybe even Captain, and keep sailing and fighting until he died at sea. What he had not planned for was suddenly inheriting a title, complete with lands and fortune.<br/>Instead of simply trying to stay alive long enough to get Octavia settled comfortably, now he had to figure out how to run an estate, bring his sister out into society while protecting her from rakes and fortune hunters, and remember his manners around one stubborn, haughty, irresistible Lady Clarke Griffin, Daughter of the Earl of Arkton – and very soon the bane of his existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After ten years of fighting Napoleon's navy at sea, Bellamy had come to hate the war with every fiber of his being. And yet, standing in the mahogany-lined study of an elegant Mayfair townhouse, for a moment he wished he was back aboard the ship he had come to call home. Maggoty bread, cramped quarters and the maddening succession of numbing boredom and vicious battles he was used to, but this? This was uncharted territory, and Bellamy was completely out of his depth as he tried to wrap his head around the fact that he was apparently a Lord now.

A Marquess, to be precise, with a gigantic estate and an an annual income of fifty-thousand pounds to his name.

At least, that was what the man sitting behind the table had just told him. And he should know, being the trusted solicitor of the former Marquess of Shipley himself. Apparently, one of the richest men in England was Bellamy's great-uncle, and having passed without an heir, his title and fortune fell entirely to his younger brother's grandson – one Bellamy Blake, Midshipman aboard the HMS Tobago of His Majesty's Royal Navy, son of Aurora Blake, brother of Octavia.

His mother had always told him that his grandfather had come from noble stock, but since no titled family members had ever come forward to back up the claim, Bellamy had always figured it had been her way of making him strive to elevate himself above his lot in life even when they lived in a shabby little hovel by the harbour, waiting for the paltry sum of insurance money his father had left to be paid out to them. If there was one thing he had never even felt remotely close to, it was rich and influential.

Except now, apparently, he was. Trying to drown out the shocked ringing in his ears, Bellamy forced himself to listen to the rotund, balding man across from him.

“I have arranged a meeting with Lord Shipley's – with _your_ – Banker this afternoon, and then I suggest you head for Flint Hall posthaste, to get acquainted with everything and get a first impression of what your future duties will be. Until then, I have taken the liberty of putting together an overview of what your estate entails and what condition everything is in. If you'd like, we can go over it together and I can explain.”

Bellamy nodded his approval, infinitely thankful for the offer of helping him make sense of his new position and the duties that came with it.

Two hours later, his head was swimming with facts and figures, maps and demarcation lines, and long lists with the names of people he was now apparently either related to, doing business with, or responsible for. It was all rather overwhelming, and he was already exhausted when the man unexpectedly brought up his sister.

“And of course, your sister will have to come out.”

“She what?”

“My inquiries about your current situation revealed that you have an eighteen-year-old sister. It is about time to start looking for a husband for her, and what better time to do so than during the busy London Season? With all this,” he made a sweeping gesture at the papers on the table, “she will have no trouble making a great match, not even if she happens to be toothless and hunchbacked.”

“My sister is certainly neither of those.” That was true - Octavia was, by anyone's standards, a beautiful young woman. Unfortunately, from what the nuns at her school told him in their regular written reports, she was also rather unruly and prone to going on little adventures, and Bellamy was not sure if it was a wise idea to unleash her on a bunch of society ladies with their delicate sensibilites and frequent fainting spells. Granted, Bellamy had never actually encountered one of those highborn ladies up close, but by all accounts, their lives consisted of nothing more than dancing and dress shopping and tittering at frivolities, and he was not sure his sister would feel at all comfortable in their company.

“Well then, if you play your cards right and find her a good husband, you may soon see your fortunes turn even better.”

“I hardly think my sister's marriage prospects are my biggest concern right now.” Bellamy was aware that his clipped tone was bordering on impolite, but he was finding it hard to stay calm at the way this man talked of marrying off his sister, as if she were a piece of chattel to be sold to the highest bidder. Of course, he knew she'd have to find a husband at some point, but surely not yet – and not like this, by being paraded around in front of the rich and powerful in the hopes that somebody would snatch her up.

“Is she already betrothed to someone then? In that case, I strongly advise you to dissolve the engagement. Whomever she was planning to marry before, she can and should do much better now.”

“I did not come here to discuss my sister.” This time, Bellamy made no attempt to sound polite, and the overeager solicitor got the hint.

“I apologize if I've been too presumptuous, my Lord. I only intended to help. If you ever do decide to let your sister have a Season, my wife will be all too happy to sponsor and chaperone her.”

Bellamy narrowed his eyes briefly, then reminded himself of his earlier resolution to keep his temper in check and tread carefully.

“Thank you for your graceful offer. If I take my sister to Town, I am sure we will take you up on it.”

He had no intention of doing any such thing. No matter what Octavia did in the future, she would not be doing it under the supervision of these greedy vultures.

A short while later, Bellamy was standing outside in the street, clutching a thick packet of papers wrapped in cloth and tied together with a leather string – everything there was to know about his estate.

His. Estate.

The thought was still too absurd to actually sink in.

Instead of hailing a hackney carriage to get back to his lodgings by the docks, Bellamy started walking until the grandiose Mayfair streets turned narrower and dirtier, only stopping when he finally spotted a sign for an alehouse. He needed a drink, and fast.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, my next big project! I am so excited!!! This story is inspired by my love for Jane Austen, and there will be quotes from her books sprinkled throughout it, mostly from Sense and Sensibility because it is my favourite Austen and gets persistently and unfairly overshadowed by Pride and Prejudice.  
> Big, big thanks go out to Rumaan, who waded through my confusing notes on Bellamy's backstory and helped me make it plausible, as well as supplying me with some excellent resources on all things regency.  
> But just so you know, there will still probably be a great deal of historical inaccuracy and drama for drama's sake.  
> ETA: My official Regency Advisor Rumaan told me that I did not give Bellamy enough money, so more money he shall get.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warning for all you history buffs: I have made a deliberate change to how characters would be addressed, meaning some titles are used wrongly. But before you all give up on me, here's why: Normally for the men (title-holders and their heirs or first-born sons), the family name would not be used in conversation. They would be addressed instead by their title, which means Bellamy would be referred to as Lord Shipley, or Shipley by his friends, rather than Lord Blake. But since I'm too lazy to make up titles for everyone and since I figure it would be confusing to omit all the male character's last names and force readers to keep up with their fictional titles, I will address male characters by their family names, which is wrong but more convenient for this story.

 

Lady Clarke Griffin may have returned to town at her mother's urging, but she had no intention of actually participating in any public events for her second Season in London. Unfortunately, all signs indicated that she would have to. Not only had her mother practically banished her from their beloved ancestral home in the countryside, she had also instructed her father, the Earl of Arkton, to make sure their daughter would leave the house to call upon their friends, attend balls and soirees, and hopefully catch the eye of an eligible bachelor. So far, Clarke had simply hoped her father would forget about his wife's mandate the second he entered his library-turned-workshop to tinker on one of his projects, and she would be left to her own devices to read, paint, and wait out the Season at home.

But this morning, a letter had arrived that had dashed all her hopes: Lady Kane, the Duchess of Shrewsbury, had asked for her company, and an invitation from a lady of such rank could not be declined, not that Clarke had any intention of doing so. The Lady Vera Kane was a kind and cheerful woman whose friendly comportment was not dampened by either her age or her rank, and since the Duchess' son and Clarke's father had gone to school together, Lady Kane had known Clarke since she had been a child. Surely this was nothing more than a social call, and there was no reason to be nervous.

Nonetheless, as Clarke put on one of her most fashionable day dresses and headed over to Grosvenor Square, she coud not help but wonder if there was some other reason behind the unexpected invitation. Perhaps the Duchess had been charged with mustering the young ladies of the ton to decide if they would be granted access to Almack's? The most fashionable assembly rooms in Town were the place any young woman of means headed to if she was looking for a husband – assuming one of the patronesses granted her entrance to the notoriously private club. And since Lady Kane was friends with some of the powerful ladies who made that very important decision, it seemed hardly too far-fetched that she would help them sort through the hopeful applicants.

Having come up with this theory, Clarke expected other young ladies to be present so the Duchess could observe and compare them as they interacted. But when a footman opened the doors to the Duchess' drawing-room, Clarke found to her surprise that there was only one person in the spacious room besides her hostess: a young woman Clarke had never seen before and who, judging by her simple dress, was not a member of the ton. Immediately, Clarke's interest was peaked.

Unfortunately, Lady Kane evidently found it very entertaining to keep her in suspense as she greeted her guest, complimented her dress, inquired about her parents' health and her stay in London so far before she finally turned her attention towards the pretty dark-haired girl who had been scrutinising Clarke with alert blue eyes.

“Clarke, allow me to introduce to you Lady Octavia Blake, the younger sister of the new Marquess of Shipley.”

Having as yet heard nothing of any such person, Clarke silently waited for the Duchess to continue her explanation.

“Her brother Bellamy was recently discovered to be heir to the old Marquess, who passed away last year. He is to come to Town some time this week, and has sent his sister on from her school in the country to live with me until they take up lodgings at their London house.”

The situation was slowly growing clearer to Clarke, but she still had many questions she needed answered, particularly concerning the mysterious elder Blake. Luckily, Octavia was eager to supply more information.

“Bellamy will be at Portsmouth, I wager – he's a midshipman with the Navy!”

From Octavia's tone, it became instantly clear that she considered this both very exciting and a reason to be proud of her brother, title or not, and Clarke was touched by the display of familial loyalty.

“Octavia's brother has served for a number of years now aboard the HMS Tobago, the ship my son Marcus is currently captaining,” Lady Kane expanded on Octavia's explanation, “and he has greatly impressed my son with his strength of character, courage, and devotion to King and country. Unfortunately, nothing in his upbringing has prepared him for his new role, or his sister for that matter. But the Marquess has granted Octavia a London Season so she may be presented to society and find a suitable husband, and a grand Season she shall have. Marcus has asked me to help them get acquainted with our way of life. If you agree to the task, you and I will help equip Lady Octavia for her debut.”

There was no doubt the offer was flattering: Lady Kane was known for her excellent taste, so if she was going to chaperone a young lady as she entered society, she would make sure the lady in question would reflect well on her in all aspects. Therefore, if she had asked Clarke to help polish Octavia, she must be impressed with her taste, manners and accomplishments. And yet, Clarke was not entirely sure if she would really be the very best choice for Octavia's companion.

“Your request honours me, your Grace - but surely there are many young women of the ton who would be much more suited to help Lady Octavia get a proper wardrobe.” She could list a few herself; ladies who could, without fail, be found at one of the fashionable dress shops every time new fabrics came in, and who spent most of their time at social events comparing their dresses to those of the other women in attendance.

“That may be true. But this is not just about getting our dear Octavia a wardrobe. It is about getting her a grand debut, the right connections, and the perfect husband, in that order. We are going to help her conquer the ton. And there is no other lady who has your strategic mind. I do not need a modiste, dear Clarke, I need a Commander of the troops.”

Clarke took a moment to digest the lady's words, presented with a mischievous twinkle of brown eyes that immediately endeared her to the mission. And while she had been loath to mingle in society this season, at least this task gave her something to do should her mother somehow manage to force her to (or her father remember to encourage her). Here was a welcome distraction from the things that had driven her away last year, a challenge even, and if that was not enough to convince her, Octavia's expression did the trick: Instead of being intimidated by all this talk of strategy and conquest, the young lady looked positively excited. Clarke smiled at her and was smiled at in return.

“Well then, let's get you ready for battle.”

With that, the ladies set about making plans with a precision and thoroughness that would put any seasoned General to shame, and only let up after they were satisfied to have filled every waking hour of the next weeks of Octavia's life – dress fittings, dance lessons, visits to the Park and the museums so she could practice to comport herself properly and gracefully in public before being exposed to the scrutiny of the ton. Her first official outing after being presented at court would take place at one of the Season's most eagerly awaited balls, hosted by the Jordan family and attended by everyone worth knowing. Since Clarke had been friends with the Jordan family's son Jasper since they were both children, getting an invitation for her new friend would pose no problem, and Octavia was already excited – an attitude, Clarke had noticed, in which the girl seemed to approach everything about her new situation.

“Now, obviously we cannot ask you to catch up with everything other ladies of your station have spent years of their lives learning. I suggest we focus on the basic necessities for moving in polite society, such as dancing and some etiquette, but for all other feminine adornments, I say we find out if there's anything you've tried your hand at before and showed some talent. Needlework, perhaps –”

In her haste to prove herself accomplished, Octavia cut her off. "I am terrific at needlework. My mother taught me how to sew my own dresses, and the nuns let me adorn the school flag last year."

"That's a good start." Clarke made a mental note of needlework, relieved to find that she may not have to help Octavia with it, seeing as she herself hardly excelled at the use of needle and thread. "What about music? Surely the nuns taught you to sing some hymns?

Octavia nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, I do know how to sing. We sang a lot at the school.” Her face fell. “But I should not like to spend all my time rehearsing those solemn hymns.”

Lady Kane laughed and patted her hand reassuringly. “And I should not like to listen to nothing but hymns all day either. No, we shall find some cheerful songs for you to sing. Clarke, why don't you play something easy for Octavia so we can find out what suits her voice?”

Heeding the lady's wishes, Clarke took a seat at the pianoforte, which she played just well enough to be able to accompany herself singing. Rifling through the selection of sheet music on top of the instrument, she chose a simple folk song which Octavia was likely to know. And indeed, after only listening to a few notes, the girl sprang to her feet and came to stand beside Clarke by the pianoforte, easily falling in with her, and they were soon immersed in the discovery of a shared passion, each suggesting new songs in turn and demonstrating if the other did not know one of them.

When they finally took a break, Lady Kane gave them thunderous applause.

“Marvellous! What lovely voices you both have – we shall have you playing here all the time. And what a fourtuitous turn that Octavia is a soprano; Clarke has been looking for someone to sing a proper duet with, but her rich alto tends to suppress other voices. But you... I have a feeling you won't be so easily suppressed. And it will be a great opportunity for Clarke to learn some less bleak songs.”

“Bleak?”

“Still beautiful, of course, with your lovely voice. It's just that, lately, your taste in music has not always been very... entertaining.”

Clarke lowered her head, pretending to be busy choosing a new song, preferably one that would prove the lady's assessment of her taste wrong, even though she knew very well the Duchess was right: She had been awfully fond of mournful ballads and severe chorals, and she was starting to get sick of it herself. She knew very well what had caused her taste in music to become so melancholy over the past months – but she had not suspected that anyone else had noticed. Now that it had been pointed out to her, however, she wondered if Lady Kane was right: Maybe finding a new duet partner was the perfect occasion to try something new.

“Oh, I know! How about a love song, to get Octavia in the mood for her entrance to the marriage mart?” Lady Kane winked at the blushing girl, and Clarke, knowing the lady only meant well, pushed aside her general distaste for love songs and chose one she could actually tolerate, a simple German ditty that, while not among the most recent or fashionable songs, was one of her parents' favourites, which Clarke sometimes sang for them and thus knew by heart.

“ _Ich liebe dich so wie du mich / Am Abend und am Morgen/ noch war kein Tag wo du und ich / nicht teilten uns're Sorgen.”_ Clarke sang the first lines and paused to let Octavia repeat them, slowly making her way to the end of the song. Since Octavia was a fast learner and the song relatively simple, they could soon finish the first verse together, and were about to start on the second when the door opened and one of Lady Kane's footmen announced a new visitor, whose name made her music partner bolt across the room. Before Clarke had the opportunity to get a good look at the newcomer, Octavia had thrown herself at him with an excited shriek.

“Bellamy!”

So this was the brother, Clarke thought, peering curiously over the pianoforte. She could make out the traditional dark blue of a navy uniform, draped across broad shoulders and arms that held his sister so tightly Clarke was afraid he'd crush the girl. Over the top of Octavia's head, she glimpsed a head of equally dark curls and a flash of brown eyes closing in bliss, and only opening again when Lady Kane clapped her hands.

“What a heartwarming welcome! Octavia, I know you must be very happy to be reunited with your brother, but please allow us to at least have a glimpse at him.”

Laughing, Octavia let go of her brother and pulled him towards their hostess.

“Lady Kane, may I introduce my brother Lord Bellamy Blake, the Marquess of Shipley?”

The Marquess in question bowed, somewhat awkwardly, and Octavia beamed at him. “Did I get it right?”

Her brother gave Octavia a small smile, but it was Lady Kane who replied: “You got it perfectly right, my dear.” Addressing the visitor, the old Lady said warmly: “Welcome to London, Lord Blake. We are happy to have you here.”

***

 

It only took Bellamy a moment to decide that he liked Lady Kane. That was a relief, because so far, Bellamy had not met that many of his new peers he felt particularly friendly towards. This lady's welcome, however, was warm and genuine, not laced with curiosity or mistrust. And, most importantly, she had shown kindness to his sister, and in his book, anyone who treated Octavia well was considered a friend until proven otherwise.

And from the looks of it, Octavia had indeed been treated well. His sister was positively glowing with happiness and wearing a new gown, well-made and tasteful but with a simple, natural air that filled him with relief – when he had arranged for her to go to London and be equipped for the Season, he had been afraid of returning to find her turned into a painted doll. But the girl in front of him was still unmistakeably his sister, and the change of scenery as well as the sudden expextations placed upon her had done nothing to subdue her lively nature.

“It is so exciting to finally have you here – London will be twice as much fun with you.” He had his doubts about that, but he did not want to douse Octavia's enthusiasm. At that moment, however, his sister's face fell as something occurred to her. “But what about the navy? Surely they will not simply let you go?”

Bellamy hastened to reassure his worried sister. “I am not risking charges of desertion by coming here, do not worry. I have been honourably discharged by special decree. In fact, this is the last time I will be wearing this uniform.” He shot his sister a quick grin. “I'll be going to visit all the best shops and get a new wardrobe this afternoon. Would you like to acoompany me?”

“Oh, I would love to! But first you must tell me all about where you have been lately – all I've heard so far came from people you sent, not from you directly. Do you come fresh from the harbour? You don't look like it. Or smell like it, for that matter.” Octavia wrinkled her nose exaggeratedly, causing a giggle to escape Lady Kane before she composed herself.

“No, I am returning from a visit to our estate, Flint Hall, where I have been introduced to my new duties in depth. Apparently having an estate requires one's entire time and attention.”

He could not help but chuckle at the absurdity of this notion, but his mirth was interupted by an unexpectedly sharp voice.

“It does if one intends to take good care of it and not let it go to ruin.”

The remark, and the near-hostile brittleness with which it was conveyed, finally drew his attention to the other occupant of the room, a fair-haired young lady of about Octavia's age. Anyone with eyes, no matter their tastes, would agree that she was beautiful, with her golden curls, sparkling blue eyes and invitingly curved lips. But everything about her, from her impeccable posture to her expensive and minutely tailored dress to the politely blank expression on her face, told him that this was a woman who would not have spared him so much as a glance just a month ago, let alone spoken to him. It was only the hint of steel in her voice that kept him from labelling her a vacuous debutante just yet.

“Are you very knowledgeable about managing an estate then, Miss...?”

“Lady Clarke Griffin, daughter of the Earl of Arkton.“ She supplied the name herself without waiting for a formal introduction from their hostess, which Bellamy, despite not knowing the finer intricacies of etiquette yet, was fairly sure was rather unseemly behaviour for a young lady. He suppressed a smile of satisfaction at realizing that he had been the one to startle her out of manners that had no doubt been instilled in her since she had learned her first words – words she now had quite a few of for him, it seemed.

“I know enough to be aware of the weight of responsibility that comes with an estate, and can only advise you not to take it too lightly. If you must know, my parents have always made it a point to teach me about the business of managing our estate, and to take me on visits to our tenants whenever I reside in the country.” The implied meaning of her words was clear: _“I know more about this than someone like you ever will.”_

It was as good as a well-placed right hook, the only means proper young ladies like her had of cutting an opponent down in one fell stroke. But Bellamy had been in a few scuffles himself before, and he had no intention of forfeiting just yet.

“What great foresight of them. This way, if you happen to choose an incompetent husband, you can always pick up the slack yourself.”

Octavia gasped in shock. “Bellamy! I have only just begun with my etiquette lessons, but even I know that that was a terribly rude thing to say! And incorrect to boot – Clarke would never choose anyone but the most perfect man in England for her husband.”

Octavia's outraged interjection kept the atmosphere from turning even more unpleasant, and Bellamy mumbled an apology and bowed in Lady Clarke's direction, but not before noticing the sadness in her smile, the way her facial muscles seemed to strain with the movement. There was a story behind that smile, and the young lady's prickly manner made him unexpectedly curious to learn it. Lady Clarke Griffin may not be the most welcoming person, but shallow she was certainly not.

And neither, he reminded himself, was she of any importance to him. He returned his attention to his sister, convinced that, as irritating as she was, Lady Clarke would hardly play a part in his life. There was no need to concern himself with her blue eyes and the secrets they held.

He held on to that belief and all but ignored the lady all the way through the whirlwind of an afternoon that followed, filled with plans and shop visits and Octavia's excited chatter. It was only after Lady Kane's coach driver had safely returned Lady Clarke to her father's house that the Duchess told him just how much he would see of Octavia's new friend over the following weeks. Apparently, Lady Clarke, due to her impeccable manners, impressive accomplishments and vital connections, was to be his sister's companion for the Season.

It was then that Bellamy realized that he had made a very grave mistake. He had not had much time to familiarise himself with the manners and conventions of the upper echelons of society, but even so he was aware that he had not given Lady Clarke much reason to want to continue their acquaintance, something he would have to rectify as soon as possible. For Octavia. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the first meeting went well.... I hope I didn't mess anything important up, but if I did, please tell me.  
> The song Clarke sings was composed by Beethoven and first published in 1803. The first verse quoted here loosely translates to “I love you as you love me, in the evening and in the morning. There has not been a day yet when we did not share our sorrows.” It's a really sweet song, and there are tons of recordings of it on youtube if you want to check it out. (Poor Octavia though, having to sing in German right away ;) That was a little cruel of Clarke.)  
> As for Bellamy's discharge by special decree – no idea if that would have happened, but I feel like it made sense for the situation.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Clarke had been returned home in Lady Kane's carriage, she had been surprisingly tired after a day of planning, scheming and shopping – and trying to remain polite in Lord Blake's presence. For all the praise that Lord Kane, an old friend of the family, had bestowed on Octavia's brother, Clarke had found little to commend him. And yet, she could not bring herself to simply write him off as a rude upstart of no consequence. Not only would she be forced to interact with him in the weeks to come if she intended to keep being Octavia's companion, but she would have to learn to hold her tongue around him. Her little barb, while certainly well-deserved, had been less than ladylike, and once they were in public, such behaviour from her would not cast a good light on Octavia or Lady Kane.

But there had simply been little within him that had managed to strike a sympathetic chord within her, and too much to alienate her: The almost rakish swagger of his entrance, only emphasized by a uniform that let every man cut a good figure. The fact that he had sent his sister alone to live with strangers in such a sprawling and dangerous city as London while he sauntered off to inspect his inheritance. But what had really made her blood boil was the nonchalance with which he had dismissed the duties and responsibilities of his new station. Clarke knew nothing of the duties of a Midshipman, but she was almost certain that the livelihood of any number of tenant families as well as a host of domestic servants did not depend on him when he was at sea. For a man who had held his title for mere weeks to act like he was somehow exempt from having to acquaint himself with what it meant to be a landowner was infuriating.

She knew the type, of course: Men who had inherited, or stood to inherit, a large estate and thought that would mean all their troubles were over, who knew or cared nothing about the weight of such an inheritance and only saw the money, the power, the leisurely lifestyle. No doubt that was what Lord Blake had been thinking of when he had made that glib remark, imagining himself endlessly sipping fine Scotch and pursuing whatever pleasures men of his ilk indulged in while his sister was hard at work cementing the family's status and adding to its fortune. The thought that men like him got to rule over estates others would love to be in charge of; to let them fall to ruin where someone else would cherish and nurture them, cut her to the bone. His throwaway remark about choosing a good husband had only served to enrage her further because it had so painfully hit the nail on the head: The man she married was essentially the only thing she had any influence over, and the choice she made on that concern would decide over whether or not she would get to put her money and title to some useful end. Clarke could spend hours silently railing against the injustice and arbitrariness with which power and influence were doled out in the world, foregoing perfectly qualified people in favour of grasping at the furthest branches of the family tree just to keep up the male lineage. But of course, well-bred young ladies did not shut themselves up in their rooms to rage against the world – they put on a nice dress and a demure smile and got on with their day.

Which was exactly what Clarke was planning to do, determined to put Lord Blake's remarks out of her mind and remain calm and composed the next time she saw him.

Unfortunately, that resolution was tested the very next morning: when she came down from her room to join her father for breakfast, Clarke was surprised but certainly less than enthused to see none other than Lord Blake himself sitting across from the Earl of Arkton, both men so engaged in lively conversation it took them a moment to register her presence, and another one for Blake to remember what little manners he had, get to his feet and bow in her direction. Rushing over to pull out her chair for her, her father explained enthusiastically:

“My dear, we have a visitor! Lord Blake has just been telling me about his life aboard a navy ship, and about all the progress that has recently been made in building ever bigger and faster vessels. I have read about it of course, but it is quite another thing to hear from someone who has sailed aboard one of those ships."

Clarke stifled a fond smile at her father's enthusiastic tirade, quite used to the Earl's exuberance when it came to all things technical, but Lord Blake looked almost shy at such praise. The sight did not help to make this situation any less strange, nor did it explain his presence in her dining-room this early in the morning. 

"That sounds fascinating, Papa. But surely a report on the navy's advances in shipbuilding is not the only reason for Lord Blake's visit?"

"Of course not!" Despite the exclamation, it took her father a moment to remember what had been the reason for the visit, if any had been given at all. "Lord Blake has come by to ask if you will accompany him and his sister on a walk this afternoon.”

The visitor did not support or contradict this statement, he only looked at her silently, until it finally occurred to him that she might like to hear the invitation directly from him.

“Yes, right. My sister would be happy if you agreed to spend the afternoon with her.”

She wondered briefly if he had deliberately failed to mention his own feelings about her company, but if that was the case, at least she could credit him for being honest. In any case, she had not made any plans, so going for a walk with Octavia on this relatively mild day might be as good a plan as any, even if it meant putting up with the girl's brother. She accepted the invitation with pointed politeness and was thanked in a similar manner before their visitor took his leave with enough haste to cancel out all attempts at politeness. By the time the door closed behind him, Clarke was once again irritated with the Marquess of Shipley – quite unlike her father, who appeared not to have noticed anything unusual about the short exchange.

“What a pleasant man.” Clarke had almost forgotten her father's presence in the room, so focused had she been on Blake and her own rising temper, but his comment now made her wonder if the Earl of Arkton had actually been present at all. “And a strapping lad, too.”

Now Clarke fairly gaped. _Pleasant? Strapping_? Had her father met the same Lord Blake she had? Because while she might reluctantly agree with the second assessment – she had an artist's eye, after all, and there was undeniably a pleasing regularity to the man's features – she could most assuredly say that their new acquaintance was not 'pleasant', nor was he likely to become so anytime soon. And her father being the only person in the world with whom she could be absolutely honest about everything, Clarke allowed herself to share what had been bubbling inside her ever since her first strained encounter with Blake.

“He is rude, judgmental, arrogant and abrasive. I find it difficult to show any respect for him beyond that which his title and his sister's affection demand.”

Her father looked surprised at the words. “Really? I found him to be nothing but polite, if a little insecure about the finer details of etiquette – an understandable deficit in his case, which I do believe we must forgive.”

By now her father's voice had taken on a slight tone of reproach, and Clarke bristled at the suspicion that she was being lectured.

“I am certainly willing to forgive a few gaps in his education – it would be more than cruel of me to expect him to excel at the duties of a station he was not born to fill...”

“How very gracious of you, Lady Clarke.” The voice ringing out across the dining room was easily recognizable – and did not fail to fill Clarke with dread even as she rose from her chair out of habit.

Sure enough, Lord Blake was standing in the doorway he had just left through, looking at her with an angry glint in his eyes, chin raised defiantly. He held her eyes with his withering stare for a moment before turning to her father.

“I regret having to interrupt your breakfast again, but there is something I forgot to say before. May I speak to your daughter for a moment?”

To her horror, her father, instead of simply giving their visitor permission to speak, actually got up from his seat, put down his paper, and started walking towards the doors.

“Of course you may. I'll give you some privacy.”

That unexpected and highly inappropriate suggestion caused even Lord Blake to raise a questioning eyebrow, and Clarke to blush to the roots of her hair. Her father had always been unconventional, and she usually liked that, at least in her own home, she could express herself freely. But to show such little regard for proper behaviour, not to mention his daughter's virtue, in front of a virtual stranger... that exceeded even Clarke's tolerance, leaving her with no idea what to do or say. But even as she lowered her head in mortification, her unwelcome visitor unexpectedly came to her rescue.

“Please, my Lord, don't let me drive you from your own breakfast table. It will only take a few moments for me to say what I have to say.”

Clarke's head shot up again as she stared at him, unable to contain her surprise or her reluctant gratitude for his refusal to ler her father put her in an embarrassing situation. Thankfully, the Earl relented, sitting back down and inviting Lord Blake to take a seat himself. The invitation was declined, as Lord Blake chose instead to stand in front of Clarke, prompting her to get up again if she did not want to be forced into a rather uncomfortable posture.

So they stood, somewhat awkwardly, and Clarke could practically feel her father's curious gaze upon them as they both waited for their returned visitor to start talking. Which he firmly refused to do, until Clarke cleared her throat rather unsubtly and he finally snapped into action – if rather haltingly:

“You see... the thing is...” he broke off again to clear his throat, and Clarke understood to her satisfaction that he was nervous. “I have come here to apologize for the way I treated you during our first meeting yesterday. I am by nature mistrustful where my sister's well-being is concerned, and I was wary of your motive in befriending her so quickly after her arrival in town. But by now, Lady Kane has told me that she specifically asked you to be a companion to Octavia and help her find her way in society, and I... I wanted to ask you for myself if you would take that burden upon you, even after I have been unforgivably rude.”

Clarke was stunned. Of all the possible reasons for his sudden return, she had not expected this.

“Now now, my dear fellow, surely it can't have been that bad? I hardly believe anyone can be rude to our dear Clarke.”

For her father's sake, Clarke suppressed the pointed remark that threatened to spill from her lips at the Earl's interjection and only smiled archly.

“Of course not. It was nothing more than a misunderstanding, and certainly not reason enough for me to leave Octavia to her own devices. Whenever your sister needs my help, I will be happy to supply it.”

Lord Blake inclined his head in acknowledgement of the offer. “Thank you. Octavia will be much less nervous about her debut with a companion by her side.”

“Of course.” He looked relieved to hear it, fiddling with his hat in a way that clearly suggested he was getting ready to take his leave of their company, and Clarke felt suddenly dissatisfied with how easily she had accepted his apology. In hindsight, she really should have made him work a little harder for her forgiveness – not to mention make it clear to him that she would not accept further rudeness. “ You should know, however, that as eager as I am to help Octavia have a grand season, I cannot accomplish the task without your help. You will need to play your part too.”

He looked surprised, but to his credit, he accepted the statement without protesting. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to be out and about before your sister's official debut. To go to the right places and talk to the right people. Shake hands and rub shoulders and make sure that every time Octavia is introduced to a promising bachelor, he will have heard your name already, and have held it in good memory.”

“How do I do that?” Despite her earlier words to her father, Clarke felt the slightest bit of respect flicker up inside her at his earnest inquiry. He may be proud, but for his sister, Lord Blake was even willing to admit when he needed help.

“You gain entry to a gentlemen's club, to which my father can secure you an invitation. There, you will make the rounds, tell people about your adventures at sea and the heroic deeds you committed for king and country. And of course, you will let it slip, not too discreetly, that you have a beautiful sister with a sizeable marriage portion.”

That made his face contort, cooperation turning into anger at the drop of a hat. “You mean to say I should start preparing to sell my sister off to the first rich Lord who expresses his interest?”

“I mean to say you should make sure she has her pick of suitors when she comes out.” He still looked unappeased, and before she could stop herself, Clarke took one more step toward him, reducing the distance between them from respectable to intimate and not caring one bit. “I know it sounds distasteful, and it is. The marriage mart is not as cheerful a place as its name suggest. But it is an important one, especially for your sister. Believe me, I understand this better than any man ever could.” Her words, a more intimate confession than she had planned to make, prompted immediate change in his expression, chasing the angry glint from his eyes and replacing it with a softness she found hard to reconcile with her first impression of him. What she saw in the dark orbs now had the potential to be much more dangerous than anger: genuine concern that made her afraid she would elaborate if he asked her to, and reveal more of herself than she intended. Before he could, she quickly continued: “If you make sure your sister's marriage portion and your reputation attract the right suitors, I will make sure she will not fall prey to rakes and fortune hunters.”

His unnerving focus only remained on her for another heartbeat after that before he nodded. “Thank you.”

Even now that they were standing a respectable distance apart again, their eyes remained locked, Blake still looking at her bemusedly, Clarke holding his gaze because she was loath to show that he had unsettled her. It took her father's voice to make them tear their eyes off each other.

“Wonderful. That's settled then. Lord Blake, I'll take you to Brooks' tomorrow for lunch, and have you nominated for a membership. And Clarke will draw up a list of people you should talk to, won't you my dear?”

“Of course Papa.”

“There you go. Lord Blake, I dare say you are in very capable hands now.”

Lord Blake acknowledged her father with a short look before his eyes fell on Clarke again, dark and inscrutable as always. “I agree.” There was a moment of silence where he held Clarke's eyes once more, making her more than a little curious as to what he was thinking, before he gave first her and then her father a brief, tense smile. “I can only thank you, once again, for your hospitality and your gracious offer to help me and my sister.”

“You have no need to thank us. Octavia is a lovely young lady, and anyone would be honoured to help her.” And intending to test how serious he was about contributing to Octavia's success, Clarke added: “You should consider joining us for etiquette lessons yourself – if I may be so bold, I'd like to point out that, since we only became acquainted yesterday, you calling upon us this early in the morning was highly unusual. It suggests a much greater level of intimacy than our families could profess to, and while neither my father nor I will hold it against you, I advise you not to impose upon your other acquaintances in this manner.”

It was good advice, but Clarke was more interested in the reaction it would produce: Was Lord Blake's promise to help her cement Octavia's position in society nothing more than a promise, or would he let actions follow his words, swallow his pride and accept her advice?

“I will keep that in mind.”

He sounded clipped but genuine, and when he followed the resolution with a few words of goodbye and took his leave once more, Clarke felt comfortable in letting him go without further reproof. For now, she would give Lord Blake the benefit of the doubt and trust him to behave in such a way that his sister would not suffer the consequences, which, surely, was all that could be expected of him. In turn, she would tolerate his presence, be polite and cordial around him whenever necessary, and focus her attention on Octavia instead. And she would definitely forget about the look on his face when she had alluded to her own troubles; that look that suggested a deep capacity for concern, empathy, and feeling behind the arrogant façade. 

***

 

Bellamy had only attended school for a few years, just long enough to learn how to read and write and do his sums properly, but he still remembered some of the stories, history having always been his favourite subject. One in particular came to mind as he briskly strode away from the Griffin residence and Lady Clarke's silent but palpable judgment: The one of Henry IV, Holy Roman Emperor, who walked from his Germanic home to the Italian castle of Canossa to grovel before the pope, barefoot and in penitent's clothing to show the nature of his remorse as he waited on his knees to be let into the castle. Granted, Bellamy had been wearing comfortable shoes on his own personal walk to Canossa, but Lady Clarke's icy gaze had been a very close approximation of the blizzard which the emperor, according to legend, had endured as he waited to be pardoned.

But pardoned he had been, as well as properly dressed down. And even though his tempestuous nature bristled at the memory of being schooled by a girl barely older than his own sister, he had to admit her advice had seemed sound, and the invitation to join the Earl of Arkton at his club more than generous. It was starting to dawn on him that the young lady who so instinctively looked down on him would not only remain a part of his life but might actually be a valuable addition. This realization was consolidated when she joined them for the afternoon.

Of course, at first Bellamy thought the steel-voiced strategist of this morning had been nothing but a figment of his imagination. In the bright winter sunshine in St. James' park, Lady Clarke, in a yellow cloak with fur trimmings, was once more the picture of innocence – smiling and giggling with Octavia, demurely lowering her head when she felt the looks of passing men on her, politely greeting acquaintances as they strolled by. But Lady Clarke the strategist, he soon found out, was very real – she was just kept carefully hidden in public.

“So where should our walk lead us today?” Their new friend had barely made it out of her house before Octavia started eagerly interrogating her. 

“Today,” Lady Clarke linked her arm through Octavia's with a cheshire cat-smile, “we are going to stroll through Hyde Park, where perhaps we might run into some eligible young men. You'll have your dance card full before you even set foot into a ballroom.”

Bellamy stifled an irritated huff, but as if she had sensed his disapproval, Lady Clarke sought his eyes over Octavia's head, meeting his gaze with a defiant look as she explained:

“Several of my acquaintances like to take drives in the park at this hour to show off their phaetons. Among them should be Lord Jordan, an old family friend and heir of an Earl who is supremely fond of all things social. The Jordan family ball is next month, and once I introduce Jasper to Octavia, I have no doubt that she'll receive an invitation before the end of the week.”

It was at this moment that Bellamy had to admit, however reluctantly, that Octavia really might be in good hands with the companion Lady Kane had chosen for her. He let Octavia's excited chatter excuse him from replying to the carefully laid-out plan, magnanimously deciding not to let Lady Clarke's triumphant look goad him into a humbling reply. He would let her have this point.

And in fact, her prediction turned out to be true: Not only was Lord Jordan in fact driving up to them in a bright yellow phaeton within minutes of their arrival at the park, but the overexcited young man had barely been introduced to Octavia before an invitation had been extended – not to the ball, but to a musical soiree that would be held at the Jordan house by the end of the week. Still unsure of the proper proceedings of such things, Bellamy followed Clarke's lead and, judging by her smiling acceptance of the invitation for all three of them, decided that the young man's eagerness could be met without concern, and all his brotherly duties in the matter were upheld with a severe look when Lord Jordan's attentions threatened to be forthcoming a little too freely.

And just like that, Octavia had gained her first suitor and her first invitation to a social event, and Bellamy had further reason to feel equal parts humbled by Lady Clarke's social proficiency and irked by being forced into a debt of gratitude to her – a predicament that would soon become very familiar to him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the next chapter... I've been rereading Sense and Sensibility, but there's absolutely no way I will achieve anything close to Austen's style. So really, this story will be less Austen, more paperback Regency romance. But hopefully still fun!  
> Also, I'm sensing a pattern in my early-Bellarke-interaction dynamics...  
> Things I'm not sure about in this chapter: 1) if I made Jake too eccentric and 2) if English schoolboys in the Regency era would have been taught the story of Henry IV going to Canossa. But it was the only historical story about humiliating apologies I could think of. Oh well...


	4. Chapter 4

Bellamy had received quite a few shocks recently, beginning with the letter that had summoned him to London: From the news of his interitance to the size of his estate; from the ubiquitous luxuries of his new London townhouse to the kind of dresses and jewelry people like Lady Kane wore to receive acquaintances for tea, every day since then had held new surprises to get accustomed to. But nothing could have prepared him for Brooks's gentlemen's club. Assembled here was the country's elite, the wealthy and powerful who had decided over his fate until very recently: lounging about in plush armchairs, sipping expensive scotch, exchanging rowdy banter and placing high bets on everything from the ridiculous to the outrageous.

As Lord Griffin led him through the elegantly decorated club, making introductions left and right, Bellamy's astonishment and fury grew in equal measure. All these powerful men, idling about. All this money and free time, squandered at the card tables!

With a sudden forlorn feeling, he thought of his friends somewhere in the Atlantic – Mbege, who would outbet the most cunning man here; Miller, who could not read or write but would no doubt severely diminish the club's silverware stores; Murphy, who was bitter and vengeful, sometimes rightfully so, and was as likely to burn down the place as he was to attempt to gain entry to it. What would they think of this haven of gentility?

But Bellamy held his tongue and politely greeted each newly introduced acquaintance even though he was tempted to just turn his back on them all. But he remembered Lady Clarke's words about how he could help his sister's chances when she came out, and after all, it was Octavia he was doing all this for. After years of scraping together what he could of his wages and hoping it would get his sister through the next months, he finally had the chance to grant her a secure future. He would not squander this chance out of his own pride.

As if sensing his disdain, Lord Griffin steered him away from the crowded gambling tables and into a quieter room for luncheon. Smaller groups of men were seated at the tables around them, engaged in conversation as they ate.

“It is not all gambling and drinking here. Business deals take place, politics are being discussed and connections made that can shape the fate of families for decades.”

Bellamy only hummed noncommittally and focused on the food, not sure what to think of his benefactor at this moment. One day earlier, he had left the Griffin house with the feeling that Lord Griffin was the most impressive and upstanding man he had met since his circumstances had changed so abruptly: a man with an open mind and approachable manners in a sea of haughty and ignorant people. He had seemed genuinely interested in what Bellamy had told him of his life at sea, even though he had refused to omit the hardships and unpleasant realities of it. And yet, this was where Lord Griffin spent his time; this was the company he kept?

“There are men here who are not gamblers and drunks,” Lord Griffin continued. “In fact, some of them are the most influential politicians, philosophers and scientists of our time.”

While he found it hard to believe, the thought cheered Bellamy. He had always had an interest in philosophy and political theory, an interest that had unfortunately been cut short when he had decided to enlist in the navy to support his family. And while he lacked the patience for scientific exploits, he respected those who pursued the sciences, well aware that engineers had made their ships faster and easier to defend, anatomists had championed better medical treatment; and whoever had discovered that lemons prevented scurvy had probably saved Bellamy's life several times over. But if those interesting and useful men were to be found here, why had he not been introduced to them?

Once again, Bellamy's thoughts must have been readily apparent on his face, as the older man smiled and leaned closer as he lowered his voice: “And now you are wondering why I did not introduce you to these men, instead of the ones you met – drunks, rakes, inveterate gamblers. I have done so for two reasons: The first is that the men who can be found most often at the card tables are often deeply in debt, and will welcome any new member to the club as long as they are rich. They will back your nomination for membership and try to win you as a partner at the gambling tables.” He shot Bellamy a questioning look. “Have you ever gambled before, Lord Blake?”

“Not like the gentlemen here.” That was the truth – of course there was gambling among his fellow sailors, as was only natural wherever men were cooped up with no other occupation for prolonged amounts of time. But at sea, their gambling had consisted of throwing dice and betting on boxing matches. There had been no elaborately set-up card tables to play hazard, baccarat or other fashionable card games. And there had certainly not been entire fortunes gambled away in the span of a few hours.

Lord Griffin chuckled but nodded understandingly. “And I can only advise you not to take up the vice after their fashion.”

“Then why...?”

“Why make introductions, if it would be in your best interest _not_ to befriend these men?”

Bellamy nodded.

“Because you now have a list of all the men you should keep away from your sister.” At the words, Lord Griffin suddenly sounded very little like the man who had enthused about shipbuilding the day before – but for the first time, he very much resembled his cunning daughter.

Thus appeased, Bellamy could once more enjoy Lord Griffin's company, as well as the excellent food and wine, only the first few sips of which were still infused with guilt. As shocked and repulsed as he had been by the luxuriating lifestyle on display at this establishment, Bellamy nonetheless found it hard to escape its lure. The wine was leagues better than the watered-down rum that had been part of his rations at sea or the swill that passed for ale at the cheap port taverns he had sometimes had occasion to visit. The rooms, while lavish, were nonetheless pleasant and comfortable, with their decor of dark woods and rich reds and greens. And then there was the club's selection of newspapers and magazines which Lord Griffin showed him after luncheon and which made his heart leap with excitement. The club's subscriptions encompassed all the latest and most influential daily papers as well as political, philosophical and scientific periodicals. It was a treasure trove of knowledge and reason, and Bellamy could barely tear himself away even after perusing a variety of titles for almost an hour, to his companion's great amusement.

But Lord Griffin had business to attend to and Bellamy was reluctant to leave his sister behind for such a prolonged time, and so they left the club and parted ways.

Of course, Octavia would not be alone: Early in the morning, the Duchess and Lady Clarke had arrived and the three had shut themselves into the drawing-room, no doubt to pursue the kind of ladylike activities even Lady Clarke could approve of.

But when he arrived at his new abode and went inside, it was to find the house turned upside-down in his absence. The drawing-room, where he had expected to find Octavia and her new friends, was deserted but looked like a cannonball had smashed right through it and left it in shambles: There were bits of cloth, ribbon and other frippery strewn about, interspersed with books, music sheets and, oddly, an empty tea set. His first irrational thought was that, somehow, someone had abducted the ladies and trashed the room rather than robbing it, but just as panic threatened to settle in, he heard voices drifting over from the next room.

Following the sound to the dining-room, he found the missing ladies – as well as even more cause for bewilderment: The chairs had been pushed aside, leaving the long dining-table to emerge from the middle of the room like a lonely, rectangular island. Circling it in slow, measured steps was Octavia, with a book balanced on her head and a long tablecloth pinned to her shoulders to swish after her like a train, while Lady Kane and Clarke were watching from the side of the room with critical expressions.

“What _are_ you doing?”

***

 

At Lord Blake's words, Octavia whirled around to face her brother, causing her to drop her book, get tangled up in her train and almost fall over.

For once, however, Clarke could not fault him for sounding so critical: The sight of Octavia, gliding up and down the length of the room with a tablecloth tied to her shoulders, was indeed a rather foreign spectacle.

“I'm practising for my presentation at court! Next week, I am to participate in a class on how to curtsey.”

Octavia's enthusiasm failed to infect her brother. “You need to attend a class for that? I thought the nuns taught you how to curtsey.”

“The curtsey at court is a special one, and getting it right is of vital importance. If Octavia were to trip or stumble...” Lady Kane trailed off, suggesting that Octavia's fate in such an event did not bear mentioning. All three ladies sank into respectful silence for a moment, Clarke remembering all too well the anxiety that had plagued her before her own presentation at court the year before.

Lord Blake, on the other hand, remained utterly unimpressed by the mention of Octavia's daunting trial. “So what do you ladies have planned for today?”

“Why, we are visiting the dressmakers and milliners at Bond Street.”

“ _Again?_ Did you not shop just two days ago?”

Lady Kane looked almost affronted by the question. “We have been to the shops but once, so Octavia only has the barest bones of a day wardrobe, and no more than one or two evening gowns – not to mention, we've not even had a fitting for her court gown.”

The look that stole on Lord Blake's face at the thought of further exploits on Bond Street could only be described as “unbridled terror”, and Clarke stifled a laugh before addressing him mischievously:

“Resign yourself, my Lord – shops must be visited, money must be spent.”

“It does look like it.” Lord Blake sighed. “But I assume my presence will not be needed?”

Clarke's mirth dissipated at the dismissive words – could he not at least _feign_ interest in the things that were so central to Octavia's concerns at the moment? She was well aware that dress-shopping and curtsey-practising were not quite as life-and-death as the battles he had fought at sea, but they were Octavia's battles right now, and surely it would not hurt him to show some support.

Luckily, Octavia seemed unfazed by her brother's lack of interest, as she was already back to gliding across the room, her natural grace helping her look as if she had done this all her life. She would shine at court, of that Clarke would make sure whether her brother cared or not.

But to her surprise, Clarke's assumption that Lord Blake was wholly indifferent towards his sister's concerns was proving wrong that very same day: When Octavia persuaded her to stay and dine with her after an exhausting but successful afternoon of shopping, Lord Blake strode into the dining-room with an air of purpose, holding a long, flat paper carton in his hand which he wordlessly thrust at Octavia.

Curious, Octavia tore it open and gasped in surprise, and Clarke did the same when she leaned over and spotted the box's contents: the single, long ostrich feather that was a vital part of the prescribed headdress for the young ladies presented before the Queen.

“I made some inquiries about this whole court presentation ordeal, and apparently you will need this.”

Not even Lord Blake's gruff tone could mask the sweetness of the gesture, and Octavia was accordingly pleased. But as she pressed a grateful kiss to her brother's cheek, his eyes sought Clarke's, a strange blend of insecurity and defiance in them – was he seeking her approval? If he was, Clarke was not above giving it in this moment. The smile she directed at him came easily and openly for once.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we got one more day covered in a story that is supposed to span several months, so it's crawling along nicely.  
> Despite the things I managed to research on the internet, I had to use my imagination for some parts of this chapter, like how one would spend one's time at a gentlemen's club or how exactly ostrich feathers would be sold. I'm still pretty fond of this chapter, not to mention regency!Bellamy.  
> Oh, and also, there's a quote from Northanger Abbey in there! (Although I'm not sure if it appears in the book or only in the movie adaptation I watched.)


	5. Chapter 5

After weeks of tedious reclusion, being suddenly thrust into such close and frequent company was rather a change of pace, but to her surprise, Clarke found that she liked it. There was a certain gratification to be found in introducing someone to the perks of her lifestyle who had not seen its downsides yet, and who could still be impressed with anything from a beautiful piece of jewellery to an exotic delicacy served for tea or a newly-published novel. Surrounded by lengths of fabric, fashion plates, music sheets and gossip magazines, Clarke sometimes felt like she herself was seventeen once more, looking forward to the excitement of her first season with flushed cheeks. With her boundless energy and quick wit, Octavia was always ready for any adventure, and Clarke went on more outings in her first week as Octavia's companion than in the last two months combined. Sometimes they were accompanied by the Marquess, but more often by her father or Lady Kane. Personally, Clarke could not say that she minded the elder Blake's rare appearances, but she did wish he would show even more of an interest in Octavia's concerns – would it kill him to accompany them on a trip to the shops once in a while? In many ways, however, Lord Blake's frequent absences were very welcome. After all, Octavia was quite a handful all on her own.

As Clarke soon found out, her charge's enthusiasm was not bestowed equally on all aspects of her new life: While she was ready to wholly apply herself to subjects that interested her, and was always willing to follow instructions when they pertained to dancing, singing, or choosing dresses, she was unwilling to use her faculties when it came to things she considered boring or unneccessary, and stubborn as a mule about it too. When Lady Kane had attempted to teach her the finer points of serving tea, the fine china had almost ended up smashed to pieces on the floor, and Clarke congratulated herself on suggesting they practice with cold water instead of tea. This way at least, they would not ruin the carpet.

The problem, it soon became apparent, was that the very thing that had endeared her to Octavia so quickly – her open laugh, quick mind, strong will and a certain unpredictability of her actions – could very well work against her in different company. As strongly and openly as she showed it when she enjoyed something, Octavia was just as quick to demonstrate when she disapproved of the contents of her lessons, and she disapproved of many of the rules of ladylike behaviour Clarke and Lady Kane tried to instill in her. It came as no surprise that a brash and candid girl like Octavia would find it hard to hide her emotions, keep her opinions to herself, and submit herself to other people's judgment, but it made Clarke's task rather more difficult. With Octavia's first foray into the public fast approaching due to Jasper's invitation, Clarke was starting to get desperate as all her admonitions fell on deaf ears, and it did not take long for Octavia's lively temper to boil over after one too many reproaches.

“I wish you would not always lecture me so! I have been lectured quite enough by the nuns and my brother's letters to last a lifetime. I had hoped to find a friend in you, not a governess!”

Clarke was struck dumb by the eruption – and by the truth in it. She _had_ treated Octavia more like a pupil than like a friend, and while it was true that she had been charged with teaching her the ways of her world, Clarke wondered if perhaps she had been going about it entirely the wrong way. So, instead of chastising the younger girl for her impolite tone, Clarke sat down next to her on the ottoman and took her hand.

“I am sorry you feel this way. I do not mean to lecture you, but I have been tasked with helping you have a successful debut, and if you refuse to follow my advice, I am afraid I shall fail in my task.”

“But why does making a successful debut require me to change so much about my self? Am I not good enough as I am?”

The girl sounded genuinely distraught now, and Clarke felt for her. Had she not suffered the sting of that very same question herself? She longed to tell her something reassuring, but she was afraid if she wanted to protect Octavia from rejection and ridicule, she would have to tell her the brutal truth.

“For many people, you are not.” Clarke detected a flash of anger in Octavia's eyes and quickly pressed on. “To them, the very traits that have endeared you to your friends – your candid opinions and lively manner – will be taken as a blemish upon your reputation. Make no mistake, Octavia, the moment you set foot in a ballroom you _will_ be judged, and harshly.”

Seeing Octavia's stricken expression, Clarke steeled herself against any sympathetic softening of her heart that might lead her to take back the words. She found no pleasure in trying to cast a lively young woman into a duller, less sparkling mold, but her task was to do precisely that, and she should not let her personal feelings interfere. Nonetheless, she well remembered struggling through that very same process herself, and had lately begun to wonder if, in the battle between her own nature and society's expectations, society had won. It was an uncomfortable thought, and pushed aside eagerly. This conversation was about Octavia, and having it would be in her best interest.

Luckily, Octavia's spirit was not crushed as easily. Nostrils flaring and cheeks flushing with anger, she asked acidly: “Am I to transform myself completely then? To stifle every one of my natural impulses and belie every opinion I have?”

“Not completely, no. There is something my mother once told me that might help: That we all have our parts to play in the theatre of public opinion, and sometimes that means hiding our true character. It must not necessarily mean altering ourselves, simply taking better care as to how we pare out glimpses of our private selves as we are.”

Octavia nodded slowly, her skepticism giving way to understanding. “All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”

Clarke could not hide her surprise – it seemed highly unlikely that the nuns had let Octavia read Shakespeare. Noticing her expression, Octavia laughed.

“Bellamy used to read to me, before he left. We only possessed a handful of books, so our tastes were hardly discerning, but my favourites were Shakespeare's comedies. Of course, Bellamy always left out the bawdy jokes. I only learned about those when I found an issue of the comedies in our library here in London.”

Clarke could not help but laugh, too amused by Octavia's delight at finding an uncensored version of the bard's comedies, and secretly moved by the mental image of Lord Blake as a boy, reading plays to his little sister that were altogether inappropriate for a child.

“Well, Shakespeare had the right of it: Sometimes we have to hide our true nature from those who seek to judge us, especially as women.”

Octavia nodded in agreement before something else occurred to her that seemed to trouble her.

“But if I am never allowed to be my true self in mixed company, how am I to find a husband who will appreciate me for who I am?”

Clarke smiled wistfully. “Quite a puzzle, isn't it?”

Octavia seemed understandably unsatisfied with this answer, but as much as she wanted to help, Clarke had nothing to contribute on that particular subject – too infelicitous were her own experiences in matters of the heart. She would not let those memories overcome her, however - this was about Octavia, and about the adventures she was to embark on in the near future. 

“But I suggest we cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, you have yet to meet any young men apart from Jasper, but we shall make sure that you'll have your pick of them once you do.”

Finally, Octavia was appeased and they spent the rest of the afternoon in companionable ease, practising a few more songs and choosing a dress for Octavia to wear. Clarke had brought some of her own jewellery to lend the younger girl, since shopping for necklaces and earrings had been of less importance than shopping for dresses and shoes, and by the time Clarke left to get ready for the evening's outing, Octavia was positively sparkling and giddy with anticipation, and even Clarke looked forward to the event.

***

 

The evening at the Jordans' was an unmitigated success: The musicale turned out to be a quaint and intimate affair that served as the perfect first taste of mixed company for Octavia, who soon lost her initial shyness and proceeded to thoroughly charm everyone in the room. Though still a far cry from the demure and delicate ideal of a proper young lady, Octavia was on her best behaviour, and Clarke could congratulate herself on having chosen the right approach in being candid with her charge.

Unfortunately, as soon as one problem was dispatched, others reared their ugly heads and kept Clarke on her toes. First and foremost on her mind was the question of how to properly and quickly teach Octavia all the dances she would need to be proficient at when she came out. This close to the start of the season, it was impossible to find a dancing master, as all the good ones had been employed by other families of the ton whose daughters stood to make their debut this year. Clarke had started teaching Octavia some steps, quickly progressing from basic positions to some more elaborate patterns due to Octavia's natural inclination for the pastime, but the girl would have to start practising with a partner soon.

Luckily, coincidence intervened on her behalf when, on a trip to the shops with Octavia, Clarke ran into an old friend.

Mister Lincoln was one of the most polite and well-spoken men in Clarke's circle of acquaintances, and she was always happy to see him. But despite his father being a gentleman, his African heritage meant that many in the upper circles of society refused to consider him their equal. Nonetheless, Clarke had had occasion to meet the gentleman in informal gatherings, and it had been on such occasions that she had learned that he was an excellent dancer.

So when she quite unexpectedly ran into Mister Lincoln at her favourite bookshop, Clarke seized the opportunity to boldly ask him if he would do her the great favour of helping to teach her protégé how to dance. After a short introduction to Octavia, who was unusually quiet by Clarke's side, her friend accepted the proposal with a quickness that would have alarmed her had she not trusted him to be a man of honour.

During a quick visit with Lady Kane, it was decided that bringing in a friend to teach Octavia how to dance was perfectly acceptable as long as their matronly friend would be present to chaperone, and with Lady Kane offering her large ballroom and beautifully tuned pianoforte up for the lessons, all Clarke had to do was find a pianist while the Duchess sent a letter formally inviting Mister Lincoln to her house the next day.

As there would be a stranger introduced to his sister for the sole purpose of dancing with her, Lord Blake accompanied Octavia to Lady Kane's house for her first dancing lesson, and Clarke watched anxiously as he was introduced to Mister Lincoln, remaining cold almost to the point of being impolite. But Mister Lincoln let the reserved welcome pass without comment and turned his attention on Octavia instead, asking her to show which of the basic steps she had already practiced with Clarke.

And even though it was rather strange to have Lord Blake standing next to her and glowering at Mister Lincoln as he stopped Octavia every so often to correct her posture and footwork, it turned out to be a fortunate decision when Octavia pointed out a matter they had all forgotten about: The younger Blake would not be the only one required to learn how to dance by the end of the month.

Octavia and Mister Lincoln had just taken up position for a country dance when the girl suddenly blurted out: “What about Bellamy?”

“What about me?” asked the man in question, who had been watching grimly from his place on a chair next to Lady Kane and Clarke, who were both watching the proceedings critically.

“He should participate in the lessons too.” Octavia looked at her brother sternly. “After all, you will be attending the ball as well.”

“But I am not the one who is supposed to be dancing.”

“My dear Lord Blake, what are you saying? Of course you will be dancing!” Lady Kane looked positively affronted. “A gentleman does not sit out a dance when there are ladies in need of a partner – and there are always ladies in need of a partner.”

Dread pooled in Clarke's stomach at the sight of Lord Blake's suddenly rather nervous expression.

“Surely you know how to dance, my Lord?”

Despite his stature, Lord Blake suddenly resembled a flustered young boy as he mumbled, in an altogether unlordly fashion:

“I know a few jigs and reels.”

At this, Lady Kane went so pale Clarke wondered if she should fetch the smelling salts. “Jigs and reels! Mister Lincoln, you must take pity on this poor soul. I know we do not have much time, but please, do what you can before he embarrasses us all. _Jigs and reels!_ ”

With this exclamation, followed by a deep sigh, Lady Kane sank back onto the chaise longue while Mister Lincoln determinedly motioned for Lord Blake to step forward and started to instruct him on the correct posture for a country dance he would be required to know for the ball. For a few moments, Lord Blake looked like he wanted to protest at being manhandled in this manner, but his sister sent him a pleading look, which Clarke followed up with a rather stern one of her own, and he relented.

With Mister Lincoln now saddled with a second student, Clarke and Octavia continued to practise the morning's dancing pattern by themselves while Lord Blake received a brief instruction on some basic positions of the dance.

After this was completed and his new pupil had been shown enough simple steps to make it through a short set, Mister Lincoln suggested they try a set in formation. When he followed these words by looking from Octavia to Clarke pensively, a terrible suspicion started to rise within her... and was promptly proven right.

“Now, since Lady Octavia is still learning the steps herself, I suggest Lady Clarke join us as Lord Blake's partner for the set – you are a practised and elegant dancer, my lady, so Lord Blake will not have to concentrate much on leading you and can focus on his steps.”

Lady Kane beamed at Mister Lincoln. “What a splendid idea. Clarke, would you be so good as to step in? It really does seem like Lord Blake will need some help.”

Clarke forced herself to nod and smile politely as she rose to stand in front of Lord Blake, who was scowling as always but apparently determined to do his part. There was no way around it, she'd have to resign herself to putting up with him in much closer range than she was altogether prepared for, and not even Mister Lincoln's well-intentioned flattery softened the blow.

When her partner made no attempts to take her hands, Clarke did it herself instead, placing her hand in his and leading him in the first position, Octavia and Mister Lincoln taking their places beside them to complete a small set. Due to there being only two couples, their options for which sets to dance were rather limited, but there were still plenty of figures for them to practise that only required two couples, and soon the first notes of a popular tune rang out across the room.

Upon the first step, Lord Blake's hand tightened arond hers, causing Clarke to flinch despite all attempts to keep her composure. Luckily, Lady Kane's sharp eyes had not missed the awkward moment.

“Lord Blake, ease your grip. You are not holding a pistol but a lady's delicate hand.”

Thus chastised, Lord Blake immediately did as he was told. Blushing, he loosened his grip to take her hand in his so carefully and tenderly as if he was holding a frail little bird, and inexplicably, Clarke found herself blushing too.

She was thankful when the dance required her to twirl at this moment, allowing her a momentary reprieve from her embarrassment. But soon enough, they were facing each other again, and though only their fingertips were touching, Clarke imagined she could feel his warmth and strength all throughout her body. It was positively vexing, she thought irritatedly as her cheeks persistantly maintained an unbecoming blush: The man did not even like her (a feeling that was mutual, even if Clarke had the manners not to show her disdain quite as openly), and yet, he held her hand as if it was the most precious thing on earth, followed her every move with his eyes as if he never wanted to watch anything else again. Of course, she knew that was a common effect of this kind of dance, where eye contact was frequent, couples were pulled apart and brought back together just by that little point of connection created by their joined hands, and where each participant must always be aware of where their partner was as they moved about the room. Most likely she had simply forgotten the strange pull the dance could create even between strangers – after all, she had not danced since last summer.

Clarke distracted herself from her predicament by watching Octavia and Mister Lincoln instead, noting with satisfaction that Octavia's footwork was impeccable, her posture straight and elegant, and that she let herself be led by her instructor as if she had never done anything else in her life. Her friend was doing well, and there was very little reason to keep watching her instead of her partner. Reluctantly, Clarke turned her eyes back upon Lord Blake, only to find him looking at her with an inscrutable expression that promptly caused her to bungle her own steps.

Mortification over her misstep made her mind go blank for a few moments, but as soon as she had her wits together again, Clarke resolved that something must be done to detract from the effect of her partner's captivating gaze. Due to this being his first country dance, Clarke had intended to remain silent so as to allow her partner to concentrate on the unusual steps. But at a ball or dance, the Marquess would be expected to carry a conversation no matter how complicated the steps, so perhaps it would be best to get him used to the additional difficulty as soon as possible.

“I hear you've made quite the impression at Brooks's.”

In his surprise, Lord Blake almost missed a step, only catching himself at the last moment. “How so?”

“My father told me that several of his acquaintances spoke very highly of you.”

His eyebrows drew together; either in irritation at her words or due to the difficulty of conversing and dancing at the same time.

“I thought the purpose of a gentlemen's club was to provide a space for men to be free from the prying eyes and ears of ladies?”

“Oh please, gentlemen have plenty such rooms. In any case, my father told me nothing that could threaten my opinion of you – he merely mentioned that everyone was captivated by your tales of our navy's battles at sea. You're quite the war hero.”

Clarke had intended it as a compliment, but Lord Blake's eyes clouded over and a sneer appeared on his face. At least now he was focused entirely on the conversation, his feet working automatically as he held her inquiring gaze with his stormy one.

“War hero? I had no intention of inspiring any such notions.” A new figure brought them apart, their eyes remaining in contact but their conversation interrupted while they both executed a few turns with a different partner before coming close enough to talk once more and he continued: “There is nothing heroic about war. It's either numbing boredom, or blood and screams and beseeching the Lord to let you see another day. It turns grown men into scared little boys and good ones into monsters.”

The gory imagery was a shocking contrast to their elegant surroundings, but Clarke refused to let herself get cowed by it. After all, if he had survived the war, she could bear to hear about it.

“I guess it must be strange, hearing your own life compared to epic myths when you have lived the grim reality of it.”

The look he sent her now was one of surprise, followed by a gentle softening around the rough edges of his face.

“Yes, I think that may be what it comes down to.”

Silence settled once more, not hostile but not quite comfortable either, and Clarke was scrambling for something innocuous to say when he remarked with forced lightness:

“But at least I did manage to impress them – after all, that is my allotted work in the grand scheme of Octavia's debut, is it not?”

“You've been listening well, Lord Blake. But I do believe your fifty-thousand a year should go a long way towards that end by themselves.”

His eyes widened comically. “How do you know that precise number?”

“I am a young, unmarried woman of the ton – we know our bachelor fortunes. As do our mamas, so be careful how you comport yourself around any and all matrons you meet. If they have daughters of marriageable age, you will be naught but prey in their eyes.”

“Prey? Am I to be hunted then?”

“Oh yes, you are. As soon as you make an appearance, I am sure you will be positively swarmed by the most lovely young butterflies, and pounced upon by their mothers.”

The sudden greenish tint of his skin made him look rather queasy, and Clarke felt laughter bubble up within her at the sight that she just barely managed to restrain. Instead, she allowed herself to quickly, teasingly squeeze his hand.

“But do not fret, my Lord. I will protect you if need be.”

Before her partner had a chance to reply, the tune reached its final notes and they parted on a bow and a curtsey, respectively, upon which both Mister Lincoln and Lady Kane immediately launched into a very thorough critique of Lord Blake's first attempts at dancing that soon chased all thoughts of marriage from their minds – or so Clarke thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've finally, finally managed to write a version of this chapter that I don't hate completely, yay! I've done some research into the dances of the time, but as always, it's not that in-depth and some things are also super difficult to research, so take it all with a grain of salt. As for the Shakespeare quote: Shakespeare's comedies feature a lot of cross-dressing ladies, literally hiding their true selves, so he sure knew something about that. Headcanon time: Obviously, Bellamy prefers the histories, but they lost that volume of the works of Shakespeare, so it was either this or the tragedies.  
> Concerning Lincoln's background, I'm looking into biographies of POC in Regency London, but for now, I haven't worked it all out yet, so it's a little vague.   
> Also, I am in complete denial about the start of Season 3. I'll just be over here in AU-land where nothing hurts except for the angst that I've written myself.


	6. Chapter 6

Unbeknownst to Clarke, her teasing remarks about his eligibility continued to haunt Bellamy over the following days. It was not the first time someone had brought up the topic of marriage in connection with him rather than his sister – he'd endured his fair share of bawdy jokes about procuring an heir at the club – but somehow it was disconcerting to think that this was actually how the ladies of the ton viewed him: As prey to be hounded. He did not like the idea, and the fact that it could be applied to his sister as well as to him made him more than a little uneasy.

But then there was also Lady Clarke's promise to protect him, and though the words had been spoken in jest, Bellamy could easily imagine her doing just that, putting herself between him and any ruthless huntresses like an awe-inspiring Amazon going to battle – if he gave her reason to do so. And so far, he had not done much of that. In fact, after their conversation about his part in Octavia's new life, he had for the most part avoided her, too exhausted by the back-and-forth of his thoughts in her presence.

Because every time his reservations towards the spoiled young lady were partly dispelled and he wondered if she may not be quite as ignorant and selfish as he had assumed, something arose to make them flare up again, making all their interactions feel like he was crossing rough seas; tossed about and always in danger of being swept overboard. One moment he was filled with loathing and contempt for this woman who had never worked a day in her life and yet somehow considered herself above most of the population – himself included. But then there were moments when she showed intelligence and cunning, not to mention what appeared to be genuine concern and affection for Octavia that made it difficult for him to write her off entirely.

Other aspects made it even harder to come to a conclusion on what, exactly, he thought of Lady Clarke Griffin – her father, for example, whom Bellamy had come to admire deeply. He simply could not make sense of the fact that such a warm, open-minded man had raised a daughter who seemed to be quite a different type of person, to put it mildly.

And then there was the fact that, when she was not lecturing or rebuking him, when she was not even aware of being watched but was caught up in practicing dance steps or choosing fabrics with Octavia, Lady Clarke seemed to soften around the edges. In those moments, her cold, marble beauty turned into something vibrant and real, something it was all too easy to imagine would be warm and soft to the touch.

At this point in his musings on the puzzle that was Lady Clarke Griffin, Bellamy forced himself to change the direction of his thoughts, or at the very least, to only think of women and the subject of marriage in the abstract. There was, after all, more than enough to think about the topic even after he had banished all thoughts of vexing blonde ladies.

The people who had come into his life along with his new wealth may be joking about marriage with similar glee than his old friends would have, but he was starting to suspect they meant a very different thing when they spoke of it. At the very least, their marriages were different than the one he had observed during his childhood, the loving partnership displayed by his parents.

For one thing, Bellamy noticed that the men at least seemed to spend as much, if not more, time apart from their wives as together with them – on purpose, not because they were forced to be apart by economic circumstances. What a luxury, Bellamy thought as he looked around the crowded room at Brooks's later in the week, to be with your loved ones so often you could choose to deliberately spend time apart from them, safe in the knowledge that they'd still be there when you got back from billiards or hunting or lunch at the club.

Of course, he figured not many of the men nursing their drinks and placing their bets around him would see it that way – they'd see their retreats as a welcome reprieve from the restraining expectations of polite behaviour placed on them in the company of women, and perhaps some of them, having chosen their wives too hastily and neglected their daughters' education, were actually glad to be rid of their less-than-stimulating company for a while. The thought made him sad. Was not the entire point of a family to spend time with them?

But this was just one of the many aspects of his new life that he would have to get used to: That children were less of a physical presence in a man's life than they were reassuring on paper, an item checked off the list of things a nobleman ought to have in his possession. As for their wives... well, he had not had a lot of opportunity to see elegant couples together, much less in private, less formal settings. But he had a feeling that not many would be sympathetic to his vision of marriage: as a partnership between equals who carried the joys and burdens of life together, as his parents had done in the few years he remembered of his father being alive.

And yet, that was excactly what he wished for in a wife. The question was: would the ladies who would show an interest in the position of Lady Blake have the same aspirations? And if not – would he settle for less? Exchange connections, wealth, beauty for genuine compatibility? Because after having been so lucky as to discover that his mother's stories of wealthy ancestors had been true, Bellamy did not expect such luck a second time. In fact, he did not expect much more for himself at all, not after the unexpected gift of being able to provide his sister with a life free of worries and strife.

***

 

With both the Jordans' ball and Octavia's debut at court approaching fast, Clarke had little time for any ruminations on marriage or the like, neither in the abstract nor in relation to anyone in particular. Her biggest triumph during the days following the Blakes' first dancing lessons was not acquiring a new suitor but persuading a famed and sought-after seamstress to take an order for Octavia's court dress on such short notice. The courses on curtseying and court behaviour they had managed to place Octavia in were a great success as well, and Octavia was looking more and more like the pride and envy of the ton Clarke was determined to turn her into.

That, of course, was the moment Octavia decided to take a step back from being proper and demure and take several years off Clarke's expected life span.

It started out innocently enough, with a light conversation while sowing silk flowers to one of Octavia's new hats.

“I must admit, I am rather nervous about this whole marriage business.”

“That is understandable.”

“So you feel the same way?”

“Of course I do. Finding someone to share the rest of your life with is a very daunting task indeed.”

“Oh, that is not what scares me. I trust that my heart will show me the right man, and help me catch him too.” Clarke winced at Octavia's use of that rather vulgar phrase, but did not interrupt – she was too curious to hear where this was headed. “It is the thought of what he'll expect of me once I've _found_ a husband that unnerves me. I know, he'll expect me to be supportive and attentive, to keep his house in order and do the family name proud by being a gracious hostess and a pleasant guest to our friends.” Octavia's droning tone suggested she had learned the words by heart rather than internalising their message. “But what of the things he'll expect of me when we are alone? Surely the reason some things are supposed to be kept between a husband and wife is that they are especially precious and important?”

Clarke's breath caught in her throat, a nervous blush rising to her cheeks. Was Octavia inquiring after... marital relations? Of her; an unmarried, barely older friend? Why would she do such a thing?

And then, as her blood turned to ice, the thought: _Did she know?_

But of course, Clarke thought with one look at her friend's innocently inquiring face, she did not, _could not_ know. She forced herself to remain calm.

“Yes, Octavia, some things are indeed to be kept between a woman and her husband with good reason.”

 _Liar! Hypocrite!_ , her mind started spewing at her, and Octavia seemed equally disappointed with the evasive answer.

“But are you not the least bit curious? After all, we are in the same situation – you are to marry as well, and soon. Would you not prefer to know... something? And after all, it cannot be that much of a secret, seeing how people have no qualms at all about asking my brother when he'll set about procuring an heir. I may have been raised by nuns, but even I know heirs are not procured by polite conversation alone. Surely if providing heirs is to be among my duties, I should know something about it.”

Clarke could no longer hold back.

“Enough of this talk of procuring heirs! It is certainly less than becoming for a lady.”

Octavia looked stricken at her harsh tone, but still her spirit was indomitable.

“I thought we were allowed to lower the masque when we were in private. Or have you forgotten how?”

And that was the thing about her young friend: She may be excitable and easily distracted, but she was also shrewd and observant, and brutal when she wanted to be.

Unfortunately, Clarke had no answer to the challenging question, even though she had directed that same question at herself before.

But she did have an answer to Octavia's concerns, and as she remembered her own coming-out, her own nervous fears about that very same subject, her curiosity about it once her first suitor had shown up, Clarke knew she owed it to her friend to stop being evasive and proper and start being a friend. After all, had not honesty been shown to be the most successful tactic before?

With certain caveats, of course. Clarke dared not answer Octavia's questions herself, too scared that her intelligent friend would realise that she spoke from experience she should not have. But perhaps she could find some other way...

And she did. A quick excuse to her room and some rifling through overspilling drawers and secret hiding-spots procured the pamphlet her mother had given her the year before. Entitled “Health and Happiness: What every bride should know”, the pamphlet, while mostly focused on the medical aspects of the marriage bed, had still given her an appropriation of things that, while not nearly covering all aspects of the experience, had at least prepeared her in theoretical terms.

Octavia rewarded her gift with excited giggles and hugs and a solemn promise not to tell anyone, and when Clarke said goodbye to her after dinner, it was in the knowledge that she had evaded a potentially dangerous situation and still managed to help her friend.

***

 

Of course, she should not have been so premature in her confidence: Two days later, the elder Blake came to visit, and it was _not_ a courtesy call.

In fact, Clarke was certain courtesy and decorum were not to be found anywhere near the Griffin residence from the moment Lord Blake stormed into the drawing-room where she was sat reading the paper. Completely ignoring the outraged Butler's protests, he strode up to Clarke while waving a small leaflet, and by the time she had figured out what it was, he was already raving at her.

“ _This_ is what you consider suitable reading material for a young girl straight out of the nunnery? For any young girl, in fact?”

“It is if she is supposed to get married.”

“You are overstepping your bounds, Lady Clarke. If I'd wanted someone to teach my sister to act like a harlot, I would not have put up with you for weeks on end!”

“That sentiment is mutual – if it weren't for your sister, I'd have been glad to see the last of you long ago as well, my Lord.”

“Surely if you cared so much about my sister, you would make more of an effort to keep such filth away from her!”

“It is not filth!" Clarke jumped to her feet, just as riled up as him at this point. "It is something every young lady should read before getting married, if she wants to avoid being quite disappointingly taught about it on her wedding night. I gave your sister that pamphlet to ensure her marriage would begin and continue with the utmost happiness.”

“Happiness? What does this...” he waved the booklet around in her face, close enough to force her to step back so as not to grow dizzy, “have to do with her happiness?”

“Rather a lot, I believe. When it comes to a woman's happiness, I dare say a little education goes a long way. Although clearly it is not education you have been privy to, or you would understand what I am talking about.”

Clarke closed her eyes in horror as the words slipped out. As if outright yelling at him had not been bad enough, now she was resorting to vulgar innuendo?

When she opened them again, Lord Blake had taken several steps forward, and now instead of having a piece of paper thrust in her face, there he was, close enough to touch, his dark eyes narrowed dangerously, jaw set and brows knitted together.

Well, she thought as she straightened her spine to stand even taller than before, he would not intimidate _her_.

When he spoke, however, his voice not quite contained enough to suppress a low rumble she could almost feel in her bones, it was not fear that lanced through her.

“Oh, I know enough.”

Her mind went altogether blank then, struck dumb by the combination of his vexing, inescapable nearness and the equally inescapable thought of what, exactly, he knew.

Apparently, he had not come up with a wordier defense, and so silence fell between them: dark and heavy but altogether alive with the possibility of words that might be said, space between them that might be erased, skin that might be explored...

“The experience of the wedding night need not be nearly so disappointing as you seem to imagine.”

Clarke's eyes widened at the words, formed so boldly but spoken so softly. They sounded reassuring, promising, almost too good to be true even, but she knew they could be.

The thought, and the memory that came with it, brought her back to her senses with a thud, and she actually pushed him away, succeeding in moving his bulky frame only because he did not expect it. Only when she had put a safe distance between them did Clarke dare to meet his eyes once more – and immediately wished she hadn't. His eyes were still as wide and dark as they had been just a moment ago, his cheeks still as flushed. But though his head remained defiantly raised, his voice sounded soft, almost a little nervous:

“If you must tell my sister about these things, tell her this: It need not be terrible, and she need not be afraid.”

And just like that, Clarke had once again begun a conversation with one impression of the man and ended it with an altogether different one. It was obvious he felt uncomfortable with the topic, but he had pushed through his discomfort to make sure his sister had no reason to be afraid of anything.

At that moment, the Butler reappeared with one of the footmen in tow, clearly ready to escort the intruder out of the house at once. Lord Blake went willingly, and suddenly Clarke was alone with her racing thoughts, still clutching the crumpled pamphlet in her hands.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, Abby gave Clarke a sex education pamphlet, because she totally would. I have no idea what the point of this chapter is, but there will be plot again at some point. I think. I'm also not sure if Clarke and Bellamy's conversation wasn't just a little too outrageous.


	7. Chapter 7

A scant few days after her encounter with Lord Blake, Clarke had to face him again on the day of Octavia's presentation at court, a day that was already marked by fluttering nerves and high emotions and that saw her in no way prepared to keep her composure around the man. At the very least, Clarke was sure today would not see a repeat of their last encounter – after all, Lady Kane was to be present at all times and her father to join them later, and surely even Lord Blake would not dare to act outrageously in front of them.

But while she did not have to confront Lord Blake alone, Clarke nonetheless found it difficult to face, let alone address him. From the moment she entered the Blakes' drawing-room and Lord Blake stood up to greet her, she hardly knew where to look. When, after having given the same courtesy to Lady Kane, he took her hand to kiss it, Clarke felt a shameful fire roar up within her that made it impossible for her to meet Lord Blake's eyes for fear of finding the same fire there; the very same fire that had startled her so during their outrageous confrontation.

Even after he let go of Clarke's hand and she took a seat next to Octavia, the torture did not end. Instead of focusing entirely on Octavia's big day, Clarke found her attention straying across the room to where Lord Blake had taken a seat now, and more often than not her gaze followed, and was promptly met by his. When she tried to avoid the ensuing confusion by focusing on other aspects of his person, however, her mind provided images to make her just as uncomfortable: When a nervous swallow caused his Adam's apple to bob, it drew her attention to the column of his neck and made her fingers suddenly itch to trace it, all the way from his jaw to the hollow of his clavicle. When she lowered her eyes to his shoulders, she succeeded only in noticing how snugly his black overcoat was stretched across them. And worst of all, when her gaze quite accidentally fixed on his mouth, she could hear the words that had come out of it the day before; half promise, half defense: _I know enough_.

By the time Lady Kane finished her explanation on the day's proceedings and they all got up to help Octavia get dressed for her presentation, Clarke was more than ready to flee the room.

Luckily, once Lord Blake was out of her sight, it became easier to focus on the day's big task. Eventually, Clarke succeeded in forcing almost all thoughts of the elder Blake from her mind as she helped the younger prepare for the trial to come.

Octavia was much less nervous than Clarke had been on her big day, but her forbidding, battle-ready expression was not ideally suited to making a good impression on the Queen either. Clarke and Lady Kane did her best to cheer up the girl on the ride over to St. James's Palace, but it was the Earl of Arkton, who had insisted on accompanying them as well, who finally had some success at drawing a smile from the girl.

When the carriage stopped before the palace and Lady Kane, Lord Blake and Octavia descended, the debutante looked a little less like an Amazon riding into battle and a little more like the modest and fresh-faced young girl she was supposed to be.

Suddenly overcome with pride for her friend, Clarke quickly clambered out of the carriage after them and pulled the younger girl into a hug, though careful not to ruffle her dress or – Heaven forbid! - disturb the ostrich feather that had been painstakingly attached to Octavia's headdress.

“Have faith my friend – you will do wonderfully, I am sure!”

Letting go of the other girl, Clarke returned Octavia's nervous smile and then climbed back into the carriage so they could make way for the vehicles waiting in line behind them to let their passengers disembark in the same spot. But as they drove off, she could still feel Lord Blake's eyes on her and catch a glimpse of his face that, to her surprise, showed none of the recently displayed anger but a curious, bemused expression instead.

Then the carriage rumbled off, and Clarke had ample time to mull over the meaning of it as they waited for their friends to exit from the palace again.

***

 

Octavia's presentation at court went so well that they all celebrated with a glass of champagne at the Blake residence, and in the days following the event, Clarke gradually relaxed and trusted the girl to enjoy herself without abandoning everything Clarke and Lady Kane had taught her. In fact, Octavia must have made such a good impression at court that word had spread, and three men had already introduced themselves to the family in a clear attempt to start courting the girl at first glance, as a giggling Octavia told Clarke a few days after her debut while the elder Blake glowered aimlessly behind her. Clearly, Lord Blake had rightly interpreted his new acquaintances' actions as pure greed, and was less than enthused about his sister's suitors, as well he should be.

Clarke, who knew well how flattering even a greedy man's loveless attentions could be if delivered with enough passion, promptly warned her friend about the nature of her sudden popularity at the earliest possible moment. Out of sheer enjoyment of watching Lord Blake's expression get more grim and grumpy with each new introduction, however, she failed to mention that particular conversation to him.

Unfortunately, that proved to be a mistake. While Octavia threw herself into her first season with unparalleled vigour and Clarke had more fun than she could remember having during any London season, it was clear that Lord Blake's patience with balls, musicales, card parties and shopping trips was growing thin, and the unwelcome attentions to his sister did their part to make him even more irritable. Had Clarke known Lord Blake better, or even spared a thought to the fact that he too might be in need of some assurance and explanation, she might have seen that another setback in their relations was imminent and taken steps to prevent it. Instead, she was taken completely unaware when it happened.

After a long day of practising etiquette, conversation, French and singing, Clarke and Octavia had just taken the arrival of an order of dresses as a welcome opportunity for a break. Octavia was trying on and proudly showing off the dresses in order to decide which one to wear to the upcoming ball. The newly-minted debutante was in high spirits, twirling around to watch her skirts billow out and flouncing about the room to strike exaggerated poses.

Clarke for her part was glad for the entertainment. Because while Octavia's debut had been a shining success, Clarke's own future was looking less than bright. Her father had been caught up in a legal battle over his late father's will, trying to contest the terms that not only meant Clarke would not inherit the family home, but that she would in fact inherit very little at all, and even that only tied to the condition that she marry. This morning, the Earl had received word that his claim had been denied.

Thus far, Clarke had not allowed herself to dwell on the matter at length, but interpreting the implications of the court's decision for any designs she may have had for her future required very little mental effort: She would have to focus all her capacities on finding a husband and abandon all interests detrimental to that cause, or suffer the consequences not just for herself but for her mother as well, who had been even more grievously neglected by her father-in-law.

It was this tense, dejected mood of hers Lord Blake burst into when he entered the drawing room just as Octavia finished a series of twirls with a perfect curtsey. And judging by the look on his face, Octavia's antics failed to have the same uplifting effect on him which they had on Clarke.

“You are still practicing curtseys? But I thought the presentation went well?”

“Of course it did. But where a lady's accomplishments are concerned, there is always room for improvement."

Clarke's tone was light and humourous despite the truth behind her words, but the intention seemed to be lost on Lord Blake, whose impression was stormy as ever.

“And do those accomplishments include any sort of reading or other training of the mental facilities?”

Octavia laughed. “Don't be silly Bellamy – my mental facilities will not help me much at the Jordans' ball!“

“You never know when mental improvement comes in handy, provided that it is valued."

Octavia was beginning to look put out, so Clarke took it upon herself to intervene.

“Lord Blake, I am sure Octavia's mind will suffer no serious neglect if she fails to read whatever instructional tomes you have in mind for a few hours.” Never mind that between the French and the history of England's great and noble families they'd already spent all morning pouring over, Octavia's mental faculties were in no danger of being stifled, not that Lord Blake had deigned to ask about any of those things. For all his insistence on the powers of the mind, his had ventured no further than the superficial image of pretty dresses and a girl daring to have fun.

Lord Blake turned abruptly to look at her, fire in his eyes. “As far as I am aware, my sister's reading is not one of the areas you were tasked to supervise. I must ask you therefore to stay impartial in this matter, which concerns only my sister and I."

The look on his face spelled danger, but as always when it came to the elder Blake, Clarke ignored every warning sign and plunged headfirst into whatever storm he had managed to conjure up.

“And I must contest that assessment. I have been tasked with instructing your sister on all that is most necessary to her at this moment. If my efforts are to bear fruit, I need to have some say over how she allots her time...”

Lord Blake cut her off with a tone of voice that surpassed even the unpleasantness of their last unchaperoned meeting.

“Not when your efforts seem to be aimed entirely at turning my sister into a vain, useless doll."

Clarke reeled back as if he had landed a physical blow. The implication of his words was clear, and gave her a stark idea of his impression of her.

“Like me, you mean?”

Octavia let out a shocked gasp, the only sound in the silence that had fallen suddenly over the room.

Clarke felt tears welling up in her eyes and cursed herself. This was what it came down to, then, what she had suspected for a while was the reason for his irrational dislike: He thought her vain and frivolous. _Useless_. And in saying so, had managed to pour salt on what was already an open wound for her. After all, how could she counter his low impression if she was in fact useless, did not even possess the power to save her mother and herself from the spectre of poverty?

Suddenly, Clarke found it hard to breathe, and impossible to stay even a second longer, with Lord Blake's eyes bearing down on her, cruel and merciless. She got to her feet abruptly, ignoring the shakiness in her knees.

“I should go.”

Lord Blake's expression suggested that he regretted his words, but at this point, Clarke did not trust him to regret hurting her – it seemed just as likely he was simply afraid of losing her and her father's patronage. Well, her father could associate with whomever he pleased, and Clarke would certainly not abandon Octavia to the merciless Mayfair crowd, but she was sure she was altogether finished with Lord Blake.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Octavia glare at her brother and move as if to accompany her, but Clarke gave a quick shake of the head, and her friend remained where she was. Clarke may be too distraught to defend herself in this moment, but she would still manage to make it down a flight of stairs and out the door on her own.

Clarke let out the breath she had been holding when she made it out the ballroom and to the top of the stairs, but her relief was shortlived: behind her, the doors banged open again and she could tell just by the sound of heavy footfalls that someone was following her, and it was not Octavia. Clarke quickened her steps , but to no avail: On the first landing of the staircase, a hand closed around her arm and pulled her to a stop.

“Wait.” And, when she whirled around to tell him to unhand her immediately: “Please.”

Despite her anger and pain, something in his voice, in that simple but earnest "Please" did indeed give her pause long enough for him to make his case.

“You should not leave. I should. But not before I've apologized profusely. Grovelled for a bit, perhaps.”

The request did nothing to calm her inner turmoil, but Lord Blake soldiered on unchecked:

“Give me an opportunity to explain myself.”

Clarke hesitated, altogether unwilling to bring herself into a position where she could be insulted again. But then she wondered what her reluctance meant: Was she scared of Lord Blake?

No, that would not do.

She straightened her spine and met his eyes, head held high to show Lord Blake that his enemy was not quite defeated yet.

“Say what you have to say.”

But now that he was bid to speak his mind, Lord Blake seemed unable to do so. He proffered what might constitute the start of an apology several times, only to trail off again after a few words, until Clarke started to get impatient.

“Lord Blake, if this is your idea of an explanation...”

His hands balling into fists, he interrupted her. “No! Blast it, I'm no good at this! Lady Clarke, I know I've been unfair to you. There is no excuse for my behaviour, and certainly no need for you to forgive me. But I...” He broke off once more, breathing heavily as if in the middle of an actual physical fight, before he seemed to give himself another push. “I am out of my depth. I feel like I am trying to lead my sister through enemy territory, blindfolded and unarmed and with no knowledge of the lay of the land myself. I do not understand how your world works, and I have let myself get lured into blaming you for it.”

She should walk away as soon as he finished speaking, Clarke knew, and never talk to him again. But there was something in his vulnerability that demanded respect. So she remained silent, waiting for him to continue his strange, inappropriate, and seductively candid explanation.

“When my mother passed away, I tried to make sure Octavia would be provided for even if I died or she did not find a husband to do so. I made sure she was taught to read and write, so she could support herself if necessary, become a teacher perhaps. My plans for her never included dancing or painting or playing the pianoforte, and that was how it should be – what would a girl like her need to play the pianoforte for? But now, every measure I put into place for her future has been made worthless. Suddenly, the things she needs to learn are altogether different ones, and some days I cannot help but wonder: What if this does not last? What if it all turns out to be a mistake, and we wake up poor once more, having wasted all this time on useless accomplishments?”

He had started pacing up and down but stopped in front of her now. “I cannot help my sister here, and it terrifies me.” After letting his eyes drift anywhere but at her face, now he finally met her gaze once more, imploringly, as if waiting for some sign from her, some instruction on how to solve his dilemma. And Clarke, despite her earlier anger, despite knowing better, was willing to give it.

“I think I may understand your struggles better now.” But remembering that she had just resolved to stand up for herself, she added: “But none of them are my fault. It is not my fault that the life I've grown up living works by different parameters than the one you planned for your sister. It is not my fault that the things I have been taught to consider vital, the things I am now teaching Octavia, are not at all helpful in procuring an independent income.”

Clarke could hear her voice growing shrill in her rising anger, and yet she could not stop talking – perhaps whatever had prompted him to speak so freely was carried upon the air, for Clarke was starting to be affected by it herself. She was simply tired – of being insulted and pretending not to be hurt by his increasingly close hits; of constantly being judged by him and gradually starting to agree with his harsh verdict. If giving in and relinquishing her dignity would put an end to this state of affairs, that was what she'd do.

“It is not my fault that I am doomed to be vain and useless, as you so eloquently put it.” He opened his mouth as if to protest, no doubt to tell her he had not meant those things – but he had, and they both knew it. She lifted a hand to bid him stay silent, and miraculously, he obeyed. “And yet some days, I despise myself for it.”

There, the secret was out and Lord Blake was staring at her in astonishment, while Clarke tried to stand firm and not let regret over her words engulf her.

“I may be living a charmed and sheltered life, but I am aware that most people are not. That there are people out there who would do anything to have my money and opportunities, and that, to them, it must seem like I am squandering them all on frivolities like balls and parties. But within my circles, from my perspective, most days it feels like I have no opportunities at all, and certainly no power. Yes, I have leisure enough to be reading the most instructional books – and yet I am not expected to read much at all, and certainly nothing of scientific or political insight. And why would I need to know of politics? I am not meant to partake in shaping the country's fate – I am merely destined to warm the hearth of some man who does, to raise his children and entertain his guests. So for you to come here and call me useless... believe me, Lord Blake, I know I am.”

By now, the expression on his face had changed from contrite to shocked and stricken and, oddly, angry. It was only that hint of sympathy and concern she'd glimpsed weeks ago that told her he was not angry _at_ , but _for_ her - a thought as strangely comforting as the softness in his voice when he said:

“I... I truly am sorry that you feel that way.”

And this apology, as simple and ornamentless as it was, was one she believed, even though she was not sure if he meant to apologize for his earlier words or express pity at her last ones.

The question was: what would she do with it? Would she reject his apology, as she had every right to? Would she accept it, and everything else he seemed to be offering with that look, that righteous anger on her behalf? The answer, as is the case so often in life, was a lukewarm compromise: She would accept his apology, but nothing else.

“Then if you wish for me to continue mentoring your sister, let us agree never to speak of this again.”

He looked like he wanted to protest, but Clarke figured she had held her ground long enough. It was time to retreat.

“I would like to go home now.”

This time, he did not try to stop her. “Let me get you a carriage then.”

Normally, Clarke would have pointed out that it was less than appropriate for a young lady to take a hackney carriage on her own. But in this moment, she wanted nothing more than to get away from him, or, more accurately, from the version of herself she unleashed around him.

So, without protest, she allowed Lord Blake to hail a carriage and put her inside, and only when the door closed after her and the driver took off into the specified direction did she let the rigidity drain from her posture as she leaned back into the cushioned seat.

Since only a few streets divided the Griffin residence from the Blakes' town house, Clarke was home in a matter of minutes, and looking forward to fleeing to her room and taking to bed.

And that was exactly what she did. She had a ball to attend at the end of the week and a debutante to prepare until then, and she would do so with the same diligence that she brought to every project. But today, she would make use of the supposed frailty of the fairer sex to retreat to her room and read and brood to her heart's content.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is frustrating because it's just yet more fighting and it does feel a little repetitive, but I promise: A) there will finally be a ball in the next chapter and B) they will start to get to a better place together. It just had to get worse between them before it could get better.


	8. Chapter 8

Bellamy arrived at his sister's first ball in ill-fitting shoes and a very bad temper, both of which were connected, and neither of which were very beneficial to his enjoyment of the event. In fact, a great many things had seemed to conspire against the possibility of his taking any pleasure in this outing, not the least of which was the fact that, despite his apology, Lady Clarke still seemed wary of him, and had been withdrawn and quiet around him ever since – not that he could blame her, after the way he had behaved lately.

But he found that, once the lady stopped meeting his every insult with a scathing look or punishing remark of her own, their interactions were very much limited to the exact kind of meaningless remarks that made polite company so stifling. And if he were to be completely honest with himself, Bellamy had to admit this: now that he had succeeded in silencing the one person he had identified as his enemy in these venerable circles, he found that she may not have been the enemy all along – a fact he had known, rationally, but which he had spent a lot of time and mental effort denying to himself.

But it was not only the loss of a potential friend and ally that weighed on him when he looked at Lady Clarke, deceptively lively until her eyes met his and she seemed to shrink back into herself. It was the fact that, as painful as it must have been for her, their conversation on the staircase the other day had torn back the curtain of respectability and had shown him one eye-opening, awe-inspiring truth: that behind the measured smiles, tailored gowns and impeccably enunciated words, Lady Clarke was just as lost and angry as he was.

And that knowledge made it impossible to enjoy the silence she now bestowed upon him, no matter how much he had wished for it before. So Bellamy made a decision: Lady Clarke's trust must be regained, by whichever means possible. Surely some social graces could be found in his arsenal to aid him in this endeavour. Contrition, flattery, charm - all were fair game today, and all probably better means than the teasing-bordering-on-impolite remarks he had levelled at her so far, not unlike a schoolboy pulling a girl's pigtails.

Unfortunately, none of his attempts bore fruit. His first charge - flattery - was met only with icy silence and just the barest hint of an inclined head to escape the charge of aloofness. (Even though, Bellamy admitted begrudgingly, the compliment was more than justified: In a midnight-blue gown and with her fair curls piled to a shimmering crown atop her head, Lady Clarke outshone even the extravagant splendour of the Jordans' ballroom and its lavishly dressed guests. The light of hundreds of candles, reflected in floor-to-ceiling gilded mirrors, made the sapphire of her eyes gleam so brightly even the rainbow hues of the shimmering silk and satin gowns around them paled in comparison. But of course, those observations were secondary to Bellamy's goal, and another attack was to be launched without faltering.)

But the second attempt, charm, also evoked nothing but a look of deep mistrust.

As for contrition, Bellamy was afraid that any reminder that there was something to atone for between them would only invoke the curiosity of those around them, and thus thwart his plans rather than aid them.

Bellamy was about to capitulate and start telling himself that perhaps that moment of utter, devastating truthfulness had been fleeting and inconsequential and it was best to leave things be, when he received unexpected help from his sister.

After dancing the first three sets without so much as a break for refreshments, his indomitable little sister floated by, a gaggle of admirers in tow, saw them, and stopped short to dramatically exclaim:

“Clarke! Bellamy! What are you thinking, standing on the sidelines like a flock of shy wallflowers! You must get to dancing immediately, or I shall not be able to enjoy so much as a single second of my first ball.“

Bellamy very much doubted the veracity of that claim, but he dared not contradict it – not when his sister had created an opportunity for him to get Lady Clarke in a situation where she was forced to at least keep up the barest hint of a conversation.

And before either of them could protest, Octavia had shoved them towards the dancers currently getting in formation in the middle of the room.

Aware of the curious looks of the surrounding couples and remembering well the effort it had taken Lady Clarke to prevent him from making a fool of himself in just such a situation, Bellamy quickly stepped towards her and bowed just as Mister Lincoln had made him practise.

“May I have this dance?“

And the lady, either too stunned or too polite to decline, gave him her hand and let him guide her into position, a feat he managed reasonably well by copying the dancers around him.

One last look at his partner to assure himself she would not flee after all, then the first strains of the music reached his ears, and they were off.

***

Clarke was more nervous than she had any right to be as she placed her hand on Lord Blake's shoulder and suppressed a startled shiver when his hand snaked around her to settle on her back. Here was the man who had made her lose her composure again and again, who had goaded her into revealing parts of herself that should never have been seen or heard by another person. It certainly did not help matters that the very dance they had chosen – or rather, which Octavia had chosen for them – was a Waltz, the new fashion that had swept over from the continent in recent years. Mister Lincoln had had the presence of mind to include it in their lessons since even the venerable matrons presiding over Almack's had allowed the dance to be played this year, but they had practised it much less than the other dances.

There was a distinct possibility that this undertaking would end in disaster, especially given that Clarke could barely make herself look at her partner. And even when she refused to meet his eyes, there was still plenty to distract her. In addition to the now-familiar sense of disorientedness evoked by being in close physical proximity to him, there was also the memory of the less than pleasant encounters they had had. But unlike the last few days, today that memory was juxtaposed with fresh and altogether different impressions: Lord Blake being considerate and polite, guiding her, Octavia and Lady Kane safely through the crush of people and bringing them drinks as needed, complimenting her on her dress and refraining from any biting remarks.

In short, Clarke had more than enough to occupy her mind, and her dancing suffered greatly from it: She was stiff and unyielding in the unfamiliarly intimate position of the dance, resisting Lord Blake's attempts to lead and leaning so far away from him she had to dig her fingertips into his shoulder just to avoid being flung off as they turned the corners of the dance floor.

Unsurprisingly, Lord Blake could not help but notice how uncharacteristically bad her dancing was. And true to his usual disdain for any measure of delicacy, he soon addressed the problem, which any other gentleman would have tactfully overlooked. But not Lord Blake: Tightening his grip on Clarke's back, he pulled her closer, angled his head down, and murmured:

“I believe that for this dance to proceed the way it was intended, you will have to trust me.“ Clarke would have scoffed at the indignity of receiving advice on how to dance from the very man she had taught the most basic steps just recently. But as it was, she was lost enough that any guidance, no matter whence it came, was welcome. So when he continued his whispered instructions, she let them wash over her and willed her body to follow. “Let some of that tension out of your shoulders, let me guide you, and trust that I will not let you crash into any unsuspecting bystanders.“

He drew back and smiled, warm and reassuring, and Clarke decided to heed his advice – advice which, rationally, she knew to be correct.

Lowering her shoulders, she tried to let some of the rigidity seep out of her posture while she loosened the too-tight grip of her fingertips and felt him strengthen his grip on her instead, just enough so he could comfortably hold and guide her.

To her great surprise, it took only a handful of turns in this manner for Clarke's reserve to melt entirely as she was swept up in the magic of the lively dance. Now firmly anchored in place by her partner's hand, and by the unexpectedly firm trust it inspired in her, she let herself ease into the sway of the rhythm instead of stiffly clinging on, quickly putting an end to the clumsy stumbling of her first few steps. With their bodies so close together, she could register his movements acutely and immediately, allowing her to tense and relax as needed so he could navigate them around the room. It really  _did_ get easier with every step with which they became more sure of how to fit together, and Clarke discovered that instead of requiring the tense concentration of other dances, this one, when done right, suggested the blissful lightness of flying.

And since it was not everyday that one got to experience such exquisite lightness, Clarke decided to allow herself, for once, to just enjoy it. To banish all thoughts of Lord Blake's inappropriate remarks and her own inappropriate responses, all thoughts of appropriateness in general, and just.... fly.

Her partner, it seemed, was having much the same experience, for when Clarke finally dared to look at him, with flushed cheeks and a smile she found it impossible to suppress, she discovered her exuberance mirorred on his face, which was completely transformed by a wide, joyous smile that threatened to take her breath away. Instead of the sneers and disapproving grimaces he usually held in store for her, today Clarke was presented with deep dimples and a plethora of laughter lines around glittering brown eyes, and she knew, instantly and without a doubt, that she was seeing something precious.

Their eyes met, and Clarke forced herself to hold his gaze, hoping with everything in her that he would do the same. Despite her misgivings about him, despite his misconceptions about her character, despite the inexcusable familiarity of many of his remarks (and her replies)... despite all of this, here was something so vibrant and real it made everything else in the room fade into nothingness.

He held her gaze, head tilted down towards her, smile still in place, and for the span of what may have been a thousand years or just a few heartbeats, there was no one in the crowded ballroom but the two of them, silently engaged in an activity together instead of loudly pitted against each other.

The magic held until the very last notes of the waltz, and only when they were forced to do so did they slowly, reluctantly let go of each other and step apart.

By the time Lady Kane found them on her way back from greeting some of the other matrons, Clarke was still somewhat dazed but had at least managed to curtsey and move out of the way of the couples setting up for the next dance. Lord Blake seemed to have no such problem, as he cheerfully addressed the Duchess:

“Let me hear your verdict, your Grace – did I avoid making my sister look bad?”

“You did indeed, Lord Blake! The two of you made a very pretty picture together – it is rare to see two people so beautifully in tune during a dance, so perfectly harmonized.”

Clarke felt the blood rushing to her already heated cheeks at the remark, and before she could stop herself, she had shot her matronly friend a horrified look. Innocent as it may sound, Clarke knew what the words implied: That she and Lord Blake would harmonize well in other, more private activities too, and the thought alone was enough to make her head swim. It did not exactly help matters that the memory of his touch was still fresh: of the warmth of him under her thin silk gloves, the firm safety of his grip... Unable to meet her dancing partner's eyes, Clarke simply nodded and muttered a meaningless reply to Lady Kane instead, forcing herself to remain composed instead of fleeing the room.

Luckily, a footman arrived with a tray of refreshments just then, and when she had gulped down half a flute of champagne and finally dared to look at Lord Blake again out of the corner of her eye, there was nothing to indicate he had understood Lady Kane's innuendo.

“What say you, Lady Clarke – did my footwork hold up to your standards?“

Clarke smiled, relieved that at least one potentially mortifying moment had passed by without anyone's notice.

“Seeing as my toes were the ground you chose to test your skills on, I dare say you could do with a little more practice.“

He flinched exaggeratedly, then pressed a hand to his chest.

“You wound me, my Lady. In fact, I feel I'm being treated much too harshly after I have worked so hard during our lessons. I've quite a mind to see you chased into the rigging of the  _Tobago_  and do some criticising of my own, see how  _your_  footwork holds up then.”

It was a fair point, Clarke had to agree, and delivered so charmingly she could not but understand the attempt at levitiy behind them, at friendly teasing instead of hurtful jabs. And of course, there was some truth there, too: He  _had_  only recently started practising the elaborate dances she'd been instructed in for years. Had the roles been reversed and she been expected to be of any help aboard a sailing ship, Clarke had no doubt she would be completely stumped. All things considered, he was holding up well during his first ball – not that she would tell him that when he was teasing her so. Instead she said:

“Perhaps I would surprise you.”

His incredulous chuckle both told her how likely he thought that was to happen, and goaded her into wanting to prove him wrong.

“I have in fact climbed the Tobago's rigging before, years ago. I was just a little girl, visiting Lord Kane aboard the ship just after he had received his captaincy. But my father and Lord Kane were discussing the most dreadfully boring things, and I'd always wanted to try my hand at climbing something very high indeed...” She smiled mischievously at Lord Blake's baffled expression. “By the time anyone noticed, I was ten feet off the quarter deck.”

“I have a hard time believing that.”

“Oh, you may believe it. I would tell you to ask my father for confirmation, but I am afraid the memory alone will send him into conniptions. I was banned from eating sweets for a month after that, and Lord Kane took away the doll he had given me for my birthday as punishment.”

Clarke regretted her last sentence immediately – to Lord Blake, her idea of punishment must sound ludicrously pampered, and she expected him to say something scathing along those lines any second now.

But instead of pointing out once more what a charmed life she had led in his eyes, Lord Blake simply studied her for a moment, his gaze assessing but not hostile.

“So what happened to that little girl who climbed the rigging?”

“She grew up and was told she was a lady and that ladies do not climb, neither on ships nor anywhere else.”

“Pity. It sounds like you were quite the natural at it.”

Clarke cocked her head to the side, trying to find the hidden barb behind the observation. But his expression was open, friendly, and the words harmless enough. It seemed he really had simply complimented her.

Perhaps, Clarke thought as the tone of their conversation stayed the same peaceful course, his harsh attack the other day and her humiliating response had led to something good after all: Perhaps with those most basic misunderstandings cleared up between them, they could finally become friends now.

It was just a tiny, hopeful spark, but over the course of the evening, as Lord Blake chatted and laughed with her, brought her refreshments and asked her to dance a second and third set – the latter of which she reluctantly declined with a view on both their reputations and the gossip such a favour from her would no doubt elicit – the little spark of hope grew.

By the time Clarke descended from the Blakes' carriage at dawn to enter her home, turned around and waved goodbye, both Blakes replied with sleepy waves of their own, and Clarke could conclude: All had stayed quiet between her and Lord Blake. And quiet, she thought as her head hit the pillow, quiet was good.

With the ghost of a smile on her lips and a waltz still echoing through her head, Clarke fell asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is - the ball!  
> I had such a hard time finding out how exactly the waltz was originally danced - I read somewhere that there was less close contact than a Viennese Waltz requires today, but I couldn't really find much on how exactly the contact did happen. Eventually I went with a version I saw in some film adaptations of "War and Peace", where the man places one hand on the woman's back and one hand behind his back, while the woman puts her left hand on his shoulder and holds the train of her dress up with the other - in other words, a fricking difficult way to dance!  
> Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter and Clarke didn't forgive Bellamy too easily.  
> All of the cheesiness is fully intended, by the way.


	9. Chapter 9

 

With Octavia's first ball being such a smashing success, the Blakes were soon inundated with invitations to all kinds of social events. Lady Kane and Clarke helped them screen the invitations and weed out the most obvious fortune hunters and those whom they suspected wanted only to gawp at the newcomers. Clarke in particular had noticed a few of Lord Blake's female admirers exchange whispered gossip and speculation about the exact nature of his exotic heritage, and had quickly and quietly put their invitations away to be declined. She may not know where she stood with the Marquess of Shipley herself, but she would not let him be turned into an object of curiosity or ridicule.

That, unfortunately, was the full extent of things Clarke knew for sure when it came to Octavia's brother. As for everything else... time would have to tell. To her surprise, he had kept up his pleasant and polite behaviour towards her since the ball, and had no longer made any sort of disparaging remarks. In short, their peace was holding, and Clarke gradually allowed herself to indulge in thoughts of friendship.

As they attended appointments for dinners and card parties, walks and carriage rides, balls and musicales, Clarke carefully watched Octavia to see if she met any of their hosts with particular enthusiasm. But though Octavia had danced with many of the men who now came by almost daily to leave their calling cards at the Blake residence, it seemed none of them had left a particularly lasting impression. Which, in Clarke's book, was more than fine – first-glance, whirlwind romances, in her experience, tended to lead to more pain than happiness. After all, it was happiness she wished for her friend.

And Octavia was definitely happy, chasing from amusement to amusement and only occasionally conceding to Clarke's advice to show at least some restraint and discernment. Nonetheless, their schedules were always full, especially since Octavia insisted they keep up their dancing lessons, and Lord Blake made the same demand with regard to Octavia's educational reading. After a few weeks of this, Clarke was starting to feel exhausted. Her father's latest idea, when he presented it to her, was just the thing she needed.

Clarke had just returned from a theatrical matinée with lady Kane and the Blakes when her father greeted her by the door, waving a letter and obviously excited about its contents.

“How would you like a trip to the seaside, my dear?”

“In the middle of the season?” It was an odd suggestion, but Clarke was rather used to odd suggestions from her father, and had learned to only try and defer him from his plans when they threatened to cause too great a scandal. A trip to the seaside, though unusual, might raise a few eyebrows but not cause too much gossip, so she heard her father out before shooting down his idea.

“I've just received word that the  _Tobago_ has landed in Southampton, and will be staying there for a week at least, perhaps more. Would you like to pay a visit to your godfather?”

Clarke felt her features relax into a fond smile at her father's unabashed excitement. He and Lord Kane had attended school together and been close friends ever since, and Clarke adored her godfather, although she got to see him very little. So where was the harm in taking a little break from the hectic season to meet a beloved family friend and get some fresh air? It may even be a good idea to spend some time apart from her new friends. Because while she found she still liked them a great deal, Clarke wondered if perhaps she may not like them a little too much - and one of the siblings in particular. Throughout the morning's entertainment, for example, Clarke had barely paid attention to the comedic scenes presented by a troupe of actors. No, she had been too distracted watching Lord Blake, whose enjoyment of the event seemed derived not so much from the theatrical spectacle but from watching his sister's delight in it. His fond smile whenever Octavia broke out into riotous laughter had been an endearing sight, and one that stayed with Clarke the entire way back home.

Perhaps it was indeed time for a respite not just from London, but from the engaging Lord Blake as well.

But no sooner had she thought so that her father dashed her hopes.

“And what say you to inviting along our new friends the Blakes? I am sure Lord Blake would enjoy an opportunity to see his friends again, and Marcus will be happy to observe his protégé faring so well.”

Clarke opened her mouth to protest, then caught one look of her father's excited expression and closed it again. There were times when she could persuade him to abandon his often eccentric plans, and other times when no power in the universe could do so. Clearly, today was one of those times.

***

 

Everything came about exactly as Clarke had expected it to: Her father immediately sent word to the Blakes about the spontaneous excursion, rented rooms at a boarding-house in Southampton and sent their quiet London home into a frenzy of preparations. Before the end of the week, a carriage emblazoned with the Griffin family crest rumbled out of the city's all-enclosing walls, bearing a cheerful party of four.

The Earl of Arkton and his young friend the Marquess of Shipley in particular were in high spirits, speculating whether this or that ship would be moored at Southampton and what strange goods and stranger tales Captain Kane would have brought with him from his travels. Octavia was looking outside, pointing out aspects of the scenery which her recently blossomed love of Gothic novels had taught her to identify as being of a sublime and romantic nature. Even Clarke was feeling altogether content, though her thoughts were too occupied for her to join in on either nautical speculation or appreciation of the wonders of nature.

Of all the things Clarke had expected of this Season, enjoying herself had not been one. And yet here she was, having somehow gained at least one, perhaps two friends who made the company of the ton bearable. And not only that but she was allowed to leave the city without first presenting an acceptable suitor! Instead of navigating the throngs of people at Almack's or some other fashionable place, she would spend an entire week breathing fresh air, looking out on the endless sea, and exploring her godfather's beloved ship, which she had tried to sneak onto as a stowaway more than once when she was a little girl.

All things considered, her prospects were bright, Clarke thought as she contentedly looked around the carriage. And when Lord Blake looked at her as if to question if her quiet mien suggested a downcast mood, she found it easy to smile at him reassuringly, and welcome his bright smile in return.

As it was apparent that all of the travellers were impatient to get to the harbour and meet their friends, Lord Griffin bid the driver make a stop there and drive ahead to deliver their luggage to their lodgings. And so they descended, the _Tobago_ looming tall and proud above them, to be greeted by Captain Kane himself and a welcoming committee of half a dozen sailors, all of whom cheered loudly at the sight of Lord Blake.

Having greeted her godfather, Clarke watched the men in amusement. It was apparent that the sailors were happy to see their old friend again, but just as obviously they were somewhat intimidated by his rich garb and newly polished speech. And yet, with every second they beamed at Lord Blake and eagerly supplied him with tales of their latest adventures at sea, the young heir seemed to shed more of the Marquess and take on more of the Midshipman. By the time they had ascended the gangway and reached the ship's main deck, Lord Blake was a man come home after a long absence. And that, Clarke found as she set foot on the deck and her eyes fell on him, was a sight to behold indeed.

The glittering expanse of still, blue ocean, the cerulean dome above, the stark white of freshly- washed and mended sails - usually those sights never failed to make her breath catch. Today, they were nothing more than decorative background to a sight far closer to the sublime. Clarke felt like one of the heroines in Octavia's overwrought novels, but she simply could not stop staring at Lord Blake as he stood on deck aboard the ship that had been his home for close to ten years.

His stance was relaxed, easily cancelling out the slight sway of the ship, but he nonetheless seemed taller, more powerful and deserving of respect than he ever had in a London drawing-room. A gust of wind tugged at his curls, effortlessly teasing the dark locks into the kind of fashionable disarray certain dandies spent hours to achieve each morning. He was, anyone could see, completely in his element - and for a brief moment, Clarke wondered what it must feel like to stand by his side atop the ship's bow as it rolled out to distant shores.

Turning away to the railing, Clarke quickly blinked away the romantic mirage. Lord Blake was simply a remarkably well-formed individual placed in surroundings that had inspired humanity to lofty thoughts since the dawn of time.

And yet, she could not quite shake the swift pulse of something lush and wild that had come to life inside her, and that caused her to gasp when he stepped up behind her and addressed her, in a low, dark whisper that ruffled the soft curls at the nape of her neck.

"If you wanted to take another shot at reaching the top of the rigging, I would personally take it upon me to distract your father and Captain Kane."

She whirled around, less because she actually felt ready to face him and more to suppress the sudden desire to tilt her head and bare her throat to him out of some instinct she dared not examine further. She briefly considered chastising him for broadcasting her childhood sins to all the world, before she noticed that no one even stood near enough to have heard them - Lord Kane was currently showing her father some new and marvelous navigation apparatus, and Octavia was basking in the undivided attention of every sailor within sight. There had been no malice behind his words, no intention to humiliate her - just gentle, good-natured teasing between friends.

"Are you offering to be my partner in crime, Lord Blake?“

"If you have need of one, I am.“

Clarke had no opportunity to reply, as Octavia appeared by her brother's side just then to demand both his attention and a tour of the ship, and Lord Blake obliged - but not before sending Clarke one last mischievous smile that made her feel like she was part of some secret conspiracy.

Now smiling herself, Clarke took her Godfather's proffered arm and followed him down into the depths of the ship to take part in the promised tour.

***

 

Some time later, after they had all shown themselves sufficiently impressed by what both Lord Kane and Lord Blake deemed one of the marvels of modern seafare, Lord Griffin suggested they abandon ship, so to speak, to take a late luncheon.

A few of Lord Blake's friends, who had been relieved of their duties for this occasion, decided to join them, and they were a jolly group indeed. So jolly, in fact, that Lord Kane soon suggested the young people take a walk along the harbour wall, ostensibly for their health but really, Clarke suspected, so he and her father could talk in peace.

For a moment, Clarke wondered if it would be the most appropriate choice to let Octavia stroll about the harbour with a bunch of sailors and no female company that could be considered a chaperone. But as she looked around, Clarke could not make herself voice those doubts. Lord Blake looked so happy to see his friends, Octavia so excited to get a glimpse into her brother's old life, and her father and godfather so eager to catch up with their oldest friend.

So Clarke silently followed the group outside the inn they had dined at and back towards the harbour. One of Lord Blake's friends, a quietly charming man called Mister Miller, offered her his arm, and off they went, Lord Blake explaining places that were of particular importance to the harbour's operations and his friends supplying the names of the biggest and most important ships moored within their sight.

All in all, it was a cheerful, informative afternoon - until Mister Miller suddenly slowed in his tracks and let out a low whistle that drew Lord Blake's attention.

“Looks like there's a spot of trouble ahead, Sir.” Miller nodded in the direction of a table outside a nearby tavern, where several men seemed engaged in an altercation that got louder and more aggressive by the second.

Mister Miller and Lord Blake exchanged worried looks and immediately steered their little group as far away from the rowdy drunks as possible. Their other friend, however, a rather uncouth man by the name of Murphy, looked completely unconcerned by the scene.

“Does anyone care to wager? Sixpence says there'll be fists flying before they've finished their ales.”

Lord Blake shot his friend an incredulous look, but he had barely turned his head back towards the unruly patrons when their discussion did indeed escalate into a full-blown brawl.

“We need to get the ladies a safe distance away from here this instant.”

He set about this goal straightaway, manoeuvring his sister so that his body was between her and the group of troublemakers. Mister Miller was about to follow his example when two of the men broke away from their table. Shouting, pushing at and swinging for each other, the men swiftly advanced towards them. Then one of them landed a punch on his adversary that sent him flying, and the man crashed straight into Clarke, bowling her over before hitting the floor with a dull thud himself.

In an instant, Lord Blake was by her side, crouching to make sure she was unharmed while his friends and a rather ferocious-looking Octavia shielded her from the men wrestling nearby, heedless of their companion's fall.

It only took a few seconds for Clarke to be sure that she was quite unscathed, and a few more seconds for Lord Blake's worried expression to clear as her assurance sank in. He helped her to her feet ever-so-gently, watching her scrupulously as if to wait for a fainting spell or a fit of hysteria, and it was this deference to her supposed frailty that made her all the more resolved to appear rigorously healthy.

“I'm quite alright, Lord Blake, stop fussing.“ Then her eyes fell on the man who had brought her down in the first place. The brawling man was passed out cold on the pavement, bleeding from a wound on the back of his head. “This man, however, needs help.“

She made to cross the short distance between them as onlookers began to crowd in around them, only to be held back by her arm and a warning growl from Lord Blake.

“Stay back. The last thing we need here is fainting womenfolk.”

And, well, if her decision to simply shake off her fall had been driven mostly by a need to prove herself to him, her next words were similarly motivated.

Huffing, Clarke brushed off Lord Blake's hand and pushed past him. “Do not be fooled, my Lord - we are not half as delicate as men would like to think. Where would we be if we fainted at the sight of every little drop of blood?”

And with that _very_ unladylike remark, she elbowed her way through the crowd and knelt by the injured man's side, ignoring the fact that her dress would be irreparably stained. She had seen injuries like this, had even helped her mother treat them a few times – a visiting tenant falling off his horse, a builder struck by a falling beam – and knew how grave they could be if not tended to immediately.

Ignoring Lord Blake's stunned look, she asked a serving girl who had come out of the tavern to gawp for clean strips of cloth, some fresh water and a bottle of the strongest spirit they had, and was soon equipped with each and in firm command of the situation. To his credit, Lord Blake did not try and prevent her from helping but sank to his knees as well, looking at her expectantly over the injured man's prone form – apparently, he was willing to help, and Clarke was willing to let him. Tugging off her kidskin gloves, she instructed:

“Help me turn the man on his side. I will have better access to his wound this way and it will make breathing easier, especially if he goes into fits.”

Lord Blake followed the order quickly and precisely, and Clarke nodded in satisfaction.

“Now I need you to hold him securely – if he comes to while I am cleaning the wound, he may struggle and cause further harm to himself.”

Again, her assistant carried out her instructions without question, holding the injured man firmly in place while Clarke wiped away the blood around the wound with water before carefully tipping the bottle of alcoholic spirits over it, drenching the wound in them. The man twitched and moaned, his eyes fluttering, but Blake's grip held firm and Clarke could soon proceed to press a clean cloth on the wound and hold it in place by wrapping a long strip of cloth around the man's head.

Having accomplished this, she straightened up again from her hunched position, wiping away a stray strand of hair that was tickling her cheek as she looked up at the circle of spectators. The sailors appeared unruffled for the most part, used to seeing blood and spontaneous medical proceedings, but some of the local gentlemen looked rather green. Octavia on the other hand, instead of having fallen into one of the dreaded fainting fits, was watching the proceedings like someone might watch a particularly riveting play.

And her brother... well, her brother was all but ignoring the injured man, his dark eyes boring into Clarke instead with such intensity that she shuddered involuntarily. What was he thinking now? Had he lost all respect for her the moment she threw herself into the dirt to help a drunk pauper? Was he considering breaking off their acquaintance for fear that she would expose his sister to even more indelicate spectacles? But Lord Blake gave no indication of his thoughts, continuing to stare at her silently instead, and it fell to one of his friends to extend a hand and help her to her feet once more. Only then, when she was starting to get irritated, did Lord Blake get up too.

“What now, my Lady?”

“Now he needs to rest, and pray that the blow to his head has not caused any bleeding in his brain. If it has, I fear not even a skilled surgeon can help him.”

Lord Blake nodded before addressing the crowd: “Does anyone present know where this man lives?”

With the rush of excitement subseding, Clarke felt her legs start to falter and was relieved to see Lord Blake take control of the situation, giving out orders with practised ease. She had heard a little bit of what his life at sea had been like by now, mostly from Octavia and her father: Despite being of a lower rank in the ship's hierarchy, as a Midshipman Lord Blake had often taken command of small groups of men for specific duties, and this experience became apparent now: He may not have been born a Marquess, but Lord Blake was quite clearly a born leader, and the men around him listened and obeyed as if on instinct, trusting him to make the right decisions.

Within minutes, they were seated safely inside a coach and on their way to the injured man's home. Lord Blake had tasked his friend Mister Miller with taking Octavia back to the _Tobago_ and informing Clarke's father and Lord Kane about what had happened. While Clarke was once again aware of the impropriety of letting the girl walk around unsupervised with a man, even an old friend of her brother's, she was even less enthused by the idea of taking Octavia with them into potentially very unsavoury parts of town. She simply had to trust that if Lord Blake had chosen him to accompany his sister, Mister Miller had to be an honourable man.

After the injured man had been deposited onto one of the seats, Clarke kneeled on the floor beside him to hold his head steady, instructing Lord Blake to climb in beside her and make sure the man would not fly off the bench at the first rut in the road, and off they sped through the cobbled streets.

Clarke watched attentively for any signs that her patient's condition was worsening, but the man's breathing remained steady for the short drive to his home. Once arrived, Lord Blake and the driver carried the injured man inside and laid him on a bed while Clarke instructed his crying wife on how to best prevent his wound from getting infected and what to do if he did not wake up anytime soon.

By the time the frantic woman finally believed their assurances that there was nothing else they could do and let them go, the sky outside had gone almost dark, and Clarke did not protest when Lord Blake ushered her into the carriage with worried haste. It was one thing to be strolling up and down the promenade in bright daylight, but another entirely to be seen leaving a house on cheapside with no one for company but an unmarried, unrelated man.

But despite the inappropriateness of the situation and the worry over what Lord Blake would think of her after the afternoon's events, Clarke could not help it: As she leaned back in the coach's plush seat, she felt more fulfilled and happy than she had in a long time.

She had been _useful_ today.

***

Bellamy let out a sigh of relief when he finally climbed into the rented carriage after Lady Clarke, and the driver closed the door behind him. They had spent far more time here than he was comfortable with, and while the people had seemed harmless, if poor, he had still felt uncomfortable exposing Lady Clarke to such unusual company for so long. Not that she seemed to have minded – she had not so much as raised an eyebrow at the shabby hovel her patient lived in, and had tucked him into bed with only a gentle reminder to his wife to make sure his wound was cleaned and wrapped with freshly boiled cloth in regular intervals.

In short, she had proven herself much sturdier than he had expected of a young lady who usually spent her time dancing and singing and painting in tapestried drawing-rooms, and he could not help but feel a surge of pride as he watched her settle into the carriage cushions in the dusky light.

“Well, Lady Clarke, it appears I know your deep, dark secret now.”

The remark was said teasingly, but the lady sitting opposite him in the darkened Landau turned wide, terrified eyes on him, and Bellamy hastened to shed light on the meaning behind his jest.

“You, my Lady, are a bluestocking!”

She laughed, the frightened expression lifting like a treacherous fog. And a laugh was precisely what he had intended to draw from her, because she looked exhausted from their eventful day and he wanted to let her know that she had done well. “Bluestocking” may be used as an insult by most of their peers, a joke at best, but as far as he was concerned, Lady Clarke's unladylike knowledge had saved a life today, and that was commendable.

Leaning forward, the lady schooled her features into a threatening expression, but her efforts were rather reduced by the mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“And if you say as much to anyone in town, I will make sure no one will ever believe another word from your lips.”

“Do not fret – your secret's safe with me.”

She studied him for a few moments, her bright eyes gleaming in the dim light of the carriage, and then leaned back again, apparently satisfied with his pledge.

“Well then. I have to say you make a fair surgeon's assistant yourself.”

“I've assisted our ship's doctor a few times when he lost his apprentice to scurvy. I've even been privy to an amputation. Today's intervention was child's play in comparison.”

With a flash of embarrassment, he noted the pompous tone his voice had taken on – was he _bragging_ about his medical prowess because he'd held down a man during an amputation once?

If he was, it did the trick: his companion leaned forward again, her eyes widening in astonishment.

“You have? How did they do it? I've read a little about the terrible medical conditions aboard our ships – did the patient survive? What method of anesthesia did the doctor use?”

But he did not get around to telling her the gory tale. When the carriage jumped over a rut, Bellamy observed Lady Clarke trying to hold on to the leather strap on the side of the carriage, only to jerk back and cradle her left hand in her right limply.

“What is it? Did you hurt yourself?”

“'Tis nothing. I must have bruised my wrist when I fell earlier.”

He was not at all reassured by her words. Now that he knew the lady was not one to faint even at copious amounts of blood, he did not want to rule out the possibility that she was downplaying the severity of her injury.

“Let me see.” His commanding tone permitted no opposition, and Lady Clarke did not protest when he took her hand in his, holding it near the window to look at it in the faint light coming from outside. There were no external signs of injury, and so he pulled off his glove to assess if any damage had been done below the skin, carefully pressing certain points on her hand and wrist to pinpoint the exact location of her injury.

She flinched when he reached a spot on her wrist, suppressing a pained whimper, and he hated having to linger at the spot to confirm his diagnosis. But her reaction when he gently turned her hand this way and that told him he was right – as did the lady herself, before he could even voice his diagnosis.

“It seems I have sprained my wrist.” She looked down on it with a bemused look. “I did not even notice it in the moment.”

He nodded. “It must have been all the excitement. It's quite common – one often does not notice injuries in the middle of battle either. 'Tis a blessing and a curse.”

How odd, Bellamy thought, to find that he actually shared an experience with Lady Clarke, even if it was to very different degrees: They had both found themselves in the midst of chaos and had prevailed.

“It will probably be perfectly fine in a matter of days.”

Agreeing with this assessment, she started pulling back her hand, but he held on to the crook of her elbow.

“It would heal better if it was bandaged up.”

And before she could protest, he pulled off his cravat and gently wrapped it around her wrist, just tight enough to hold it steady without cutting off circulation to her hand. He tried to be gentle, but nonetheless, he perceived her hand tremble slightly in his and felt revulsion at the thought that his actions might be causing her pain.

“Am I hurting you?”

She shook her head. “It pinches a little, nothing more. Perhaps you could distract me? You promised to tell me about the time you assisted in an amputation.”

She smiled shyly, averting her eyes as if she had made a particularly immodest request. But when he launched into the story, she soon listened with rapt attention, eyes wide and lips parted in fascination, and the rest of the short ride to their lodgings passed by in a blur.

And like Lady Clarke's sprained wrist or any of the injuries he had sustained during his time at sea, the hit Bellamy had taken that day only made itself known much later. After he had said goodnight to Lord Griffin, Octavia and Lady Clarke, Bellamy lay in bed for a long time, unable to sleep despite the tiredness he felt from the day's exertions. His mind kept replaying the afternoon's events, contrasting the memory of Lady Clarke, kneeling in the dirt and painting bloody fingerprints on white muslin and rosy cheeks, with the image of her he had held on to for so long, of impervious wealth and privileged ignorance. Oh, how wrong he had been in his first impression. And how unforgivable his harsh words had been before; how despicable he had been to call her useless.  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone's developing a crush, I dare say. Also, yes, Clarke is ridiculously accomplished at ALL the things. But she's the heroine, so sue me. I'm aware btw that Clarke is doing medicine using discoveries that have not actually been made yet (like the use of antiseptics/alcohol to prevent infection), but let's just agree to handwave that away, okay?


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did somebody ask for more drama? No? Well tough luck, because this chapter is ALL DRAMA. (And also possibly some anachronisms.) You have been warned.

The Blakes and Griffins spent one sun-drenched, carefree week by the sea, during which Clarke learned a lot about seafaring, let Octavia talk her into slipping off her shoes during a walk on a deserted stretch of beach and dip her feet into the icy ocean water, and slowly became more and more comfortable around Lord Blake, who was less ready to erupt at every perceived offense and more ready to smile - a sight which still never failed to make the ocean's gleaming surface pale in comparison.

By the time they returned to London, Clarke had decided it was safe to consider Lord Blake a friend, and it thus became much easier to dance and joke with him, to present a united front against Octavia's more unsuitable ideas, and to stand by him with a steel-straightened back and a cold smile if anyone so much as attempted to shun or insult the Blake siblings. The few who did dare to look down their noses and make remarks about "allowing anyone in these days", she cut without remorse.

The Blake siblings did their part to ease into their new situation: Octavia became less wild, or at least willing to pretend to be less wild when in public. This reduced the witnesses of her loud laughter and spontaneous whims to the Griffins, Lady Kane and Mister Lincoln, whose continued visits soon made sure both Blakes could stand their ground on a crowded dance floor.

Clarke, it seemed, had declared her loyalty with the right people. And if she still had any doubts as to whether they would show the same loyalty in turn, events would soon transpire that gave her certainty.

***

 

Though large and resplendent, the second ball Bellamy, Octavia and Lady Clarke attended at the Jordans' was a ball like any other, a sentiment which, as soon as it passed through his mind, reminded Bellamy just how used he had become to his new life. Just a few months ago he could hardly have imagined attending a ball in the first place. Now the experience barely caused more than a twinge of annoyance at donning uncomfortably formal clothes and spending a night squeezed into an overheated ballroom with too many perfumed strangers.

Of course, not everything about balls, dances and the like was terrible. Apart from a few strange fads – Bellamy would never understand the allure of jelly moulded into foreign shapes – the food was excellent. Dancing too was something he found he took to quite easily, especially once Lord Griffin had taken him to see his own cobbler for a pair of shoes that was vastly superior to the one he had worn to his first ball. Used to quite different types of physical exertion, Bellamy's dancing nevertheless soon improved, especially under Lady Clarke's patient tutelage.

And though he had by now found the courage to ask several young ladies to dance, and had, encouragingly enough, never been turned down, he still preferred to dance with Octavia's companion. As accomplished as many of the other ladies were, none of them seemed to mold themselves to his grip so easily, to follow his lead as if they were reading his mind, to subtly take over leading when he momentarily forgot about a succession of steps and found himself at a loss. None of them smiled the way she did when a waltz was announced and he bowed and extended his hand. None seemed brimming with life the way she was when they came to a stop after whirling around the room, as if the pulse of every living creature was pumping through her veins at this moment.

None, in short, were quite like her, and it was this observation that was beginning to worry Bellamy.

For though Bellamy had been made aware that he was now not only able but actually expected to take a wife, had been encouraged to pay attention to any young ladies who might be able to elicit the necessary tender feelings within him, marriage had not been a goal he had intended to strive for. It had appeared an abstract concept to him, as foreign and useless as the attentions bestowed upon him by young ladies who knew no more than his title and fortune. But as he looked at Lady Clarke today, having taken a break from dancing to pay attention to Lady Kane and equip her with a fresh beverage, for the first time Bellamy wondered if there could be something more behind the idea of marriage than the joining of two titled families. If, perhaps, there could be friendship too, and trust and admiration...

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden, eerily well-timed mention of Lady Clarke's name.

“The Griffin girl is not unsightly.”

“No, not in the least. But could you imagine marrying her? _Bedding_ her?”

Upon hearing the words, Bellamy promptly choked on his champagne. He had not been the one the question had been addressed to, but his mind had been quick to answer. Yes, he could imagine it all too easily: how she would throw all propriety to the wind and pull him towards her with that blaze in her eyes that always spelled trouble. How that flush would make an appearance again, not the polite pinkening of her cheeks that she showed the world but the deep, angry scarlet he liked to evoke in her. How her voice would turn husky like it did when she sang her little songs, until she'd cease forming words altogether and resort to sighs and moans alone....

“Like fucking a fish.”

The man's conversation partner chuckled and gave some kind of response, but Bellamy could not hear it under the angry roar in his ears. He'd heard his fair share of bawdy remarks, and made a few himself, but never in his life had he said anything so insulting about a lady, be she a duchess or a barmaid.

He was about to turn around and give the cad a piece of his mind when a commotion nearby drew his attention – a commotion in the exact place where he had just left Lady Clarke, Lady Kane and Octavia.

Setting down his champagne flute and pushing through the throng was a matter of seconds, as was identifying Lady Clarke's profile and the fact that her skin had gone pale and ashen, and closing the remaining distance to catch her just as she crumpled silently to the floor.

***

 

Clarke was not usually prone to fainting fits and hysteria. She had in fact never fainted once in her life, and so returning to consciousness was a dizzying, unfamiliar experience. There was nausea first, then disorientedness when a look at her surroundings confirmed that she was no longer in the ballroom, and then panic until she realized that she was not alone and appeared, at least, to be safe: Lord Blake was bent over her, holding a vial of smelling salts to her nose. She jerked her head to the side to escape the stench of ammonia, and was rewarded by a low chuckle.

“I had been given the impression that you were not the fainting type.”

His flippant words would have made her irritated, were it not for the slight strain in them, the hint of worry in his eyes when she turned her head to look at him again.

“What happened?”

“You had a bit of a fainting spell, proving once and for all that you really are a very genteel young lady. Congratulations.”

Clarke would have snapped at her friend in a decidedly not genteel manner if she had not been so busy trying to remember what exactly caused her to _faint_ , of all things. The heat had probably been a factor, but there was something else... And then the memory returned to her and Clarke snapped upright, ignoring the flash of vertigo at her sudden movement.

“Slowly now.”

Lord Blake sounded uncharacteristically worried, but Clarke brushed off his concerned offer of a glass of water with an impatient wave while her mind filled in the blank spots. It had not been just the heat that had caused her to faint: it had been being pulled into a group of laughing patrons by Octavia only to be faced, unexpectedly, with a certain Lord Collins and his beautiful wife. She would never forget the look of pure horror on his face when he saw her – an expression that she could never have imagined on the face of someone who had once gazed at her with the utmost tenderness. That look alone had managed to kill the little flicker of hope that she had nurtured those past months, no matter how irrational: That the last Season's events would all turn out to be a big misunderstanding; that there would eventually be an explanation, an apology. Now she realized there would be no such thing for her, only pain and humiliation, and Clarke saw absolutely no way out of it – so she fainted.

“What happened between you and that man?”

Clarke flinched. She had not thought anyone had noticed the extent of her emotional turmoil, let alone that her fainting spell was caused by the mere _sight_ of a man who should not be more than a passing acquaintance. But Lord Blake, apparently, was more observant than she liked to give him credit for. She knew what she should do: deny even knowing Finn Collins, chide the Marquess for so much as insinuating anything happened, and then distract him before he could ask even more nosy questions – and get out of here, fast, before anyone noticed that she had retreated to a secluded room with a single man of no relation and gossip would spread like wildfire.

She did the opposite instead: She stayed in place and disclosed everything.

“What do you think happened? He...” she averted her eyes, aware that well-bred ladies did not talk of such things to a gentleman. But she had the sudden strong urge to openly address the one subject that was taboo in her parents' usually so liberal-minded household.

She raised her eyes to meet his gaze head-on. “He seduced me. It was my first season and he, charming and handsome and supposedly eligible, showered me with attention. There is no mistaking me for a passive victim here – I was all too willing to be seduced. Part of it may have been rebellion, the thrill of doing something reckless and romantic. He spoke of love and fate and a trip to Gretna Green, so when we managed to catch a few moments alone, it seemed fastidious to postpone what could not possibly be wrong or unnatural between two people in love, not when we were going to be married mere days later.”

Clarke swallowed down tears, forcing herself to continue. “Except we never left. He did not arrive or send his carriage at the appointed time, and neither did he send any word of explanation. In fact, he disappeared from London, and tonight was the first time I've seen him since.”

She shuddered at the memory of her own naiveté, her face flushing with shame even as she held Lord Blake's stormy gaze. “By mere coincidence, I later learned that he had been secretly engaged to a childhood friend, and had married her after the poor woman had suffered a debilitating accident, probably so she would not be left destitute and prospectless. He only abandoned me to save another woman, one with older claims and graver ills.”

She laughed humourlessly, but her strained mirth was not returned. Lord Blake was still looking at her quietly, hands balled into tight fists at his sides, and she could only imagine how angry he was right now at having his sister publically associated with someone like her.

“The affair was hushed up before it could turn into a scandal, so Octavia's reputation should not suffer through her association with me. But I fully understand if you and your sister want to cut ties with my family now.”

Now he looked confused as well as angry, and Clarke suddenly wished this whole night were over and she in her room at home, never to emerge again. She had never meant to make an appearance this Season, knowing that she would most likely meet Lord Collins and his wife, but preparing Octavia for her debut had been such a delight. She had made a friend, and had actually looked forward to helping her navigate the traps of society. And even Octavia's brother, despite his initial antagostic manner, had grown on her.

The thought of letting them go pained her, even more than the realization that, scandal or not, the one mistake she had made in an unworthy man's arms would haunt her forever. She might as well resign herself to telling her mother that she would never find a suitable husband and no longer had the heart to try. Perhaps then she would finally be allowed to return to their ancestral home in their country, lofty, beautiful Arrow House.

Clarke was so tied up in her own tumultuous thoughts that it did not register with her that Lord Blake had moved closer. But suddenly he was standing right before her and his hand was on her shoulder, covering not just the puffy sleeves of her dress but the exposed skin where her neck sloped down towards her shoulder. His palm was warm and slightly sweaty, but it was human contact; deliberate, comforting human contact, and against her better instincts, Clarke leaned into the touch instead of brushing it off like she should.

It was only when he started softly rubbing her skin with the pad of his thumb and Clarke felt a shiver run down her spine that she realized what was actually happening. And now she did brush him off, ripping away his hand and jumping to her feet, feeling betrayed in a way that was almost worse than Lord Collins's treachery. Just as she had begun to consider Lord Blake a decent man, and a friend to boot.

“You mistake my candour for permissiveness, Lord Blake.”

“Excuse me?”

“Despite what you might assume after hearing my story, I am not a loose woman.”

Her words made his expression clear up in understanding, only to immediately darken with anger again.

“Are you accusing me of trying to take advantage of you, when all I meant to do was offer comfort?”

“I do not know what you _meant_ to do, but your behaviour is far from appropriate.”

He still looked angry, and doubts were sneaking up on Clarke. Maybe he really had just wanted to offer comfort, and had simply gone about it very clumsily? In which case he was probably, she thought with a look at his face, very offended just now. She prepared herself for the inevitable eruption, for a lecture about not judging people based on their social standing, for anger and derision she would welcome at this moment because it would echo her own feelings towards herself.

Instead, he stepped closer again and took hold of her gloved hand, gently so as to allow her to pull it out of his grasp.

“Not all men are like Collins.”

Clarke stared at their linked hands for a moment, the warmth of his skin tangible through her silk gloves. Then she looked up at him to find his expression just as gentle as his voice and his touch.

“I know that. But it appears I forgot, at some point. I wish I could believe it once again.”

In the silence that fell between them now, her voice seemed to echo, small and defeated and not at all what she used to sound like, before everything.

“One day you will.”

He sounded so sincere that Clarke wondered if it was somehow possible for his conviction to seep into her through their joined hands. And though she doubted it was, she still felt a little stronger as the seconds passed in silence, their hands and gazes linked until he gave himself a little shake, released her hand, and stepped back.

“I told Octavia to find Lady Kane and have the coach brought around. I am sure by now it is waiting for us outside.”

Nodding, Clarke gathered her shawl from the sofa and started walking towards the door, but she had not even made it halfway there before her courage abandoned her once more and she stopped.

Everyone she knew was out there, many of them having witnessed what had just happened... and like Lord Blake, some may have deducted why.

Her feet felt like lead, getting heavier with every step, until she came to a stop entirely a few feet from the door. There was a mirror hung up between the two tall double doors, gold-framed and polished to dazzling clarity, but what she saw in it was anything but dazzling: Her reflection showed a pale young woman, hair and dress in barely repaired disarray, her crystal eyes dull and lifeless, her posture limp and defeated, and for a moment, Clarke had trouble identifying the repugnant creature as herself.

How different she had looked when she had first made her entry into polite society: with graceful, impeccable posture, she had commanded every room upon entering even at her young age; she had known how to steer a conversation in the direction she wanted it to go and to make the right partners appear before her for exactly the right dance. She had possessed the unchallenged confidence of a young woman of fortune, beauty and position who knew well her place at the top of the ladder, and never even dreamed of getting pushed off – only to fling herself off for a silly affair.

Not for the first time, Clarke was bitterly aware that she had given Finn Collins more than just her virtue on that fateful summer night last year.

During months of silence, Clarke had managed to reassure herself that she had, by some stroke of luck, managed to evade the punishment that usually befell young ladies who misstepped as she had. Had told herself that, perhaps, it may not be quite so inexcusable as she had thought for a hot-blooded young person, even a female one, to give in to temptation without paying for it all her life. Now that her dreadful secret threatened to be revealed after all, she was quite unprepared, and very uncharacteristically losing her head.

Lord Blake had been following close behind, she could feel him at her back, and now with dread and panic rising within her at the thought of what lay outside those doors, she turned towards him, desperately searching for an anchor in the stormy sea she was trying and failing to cross.

“How can I get back out there when everyone _knows_?”

“Nobody knows. Octavia told the old gossips that you had passed up dinner in your excitement for tonight's ball, which in addition to the heat must have caused your fainting spell. That should be enough to satisfy them. No one will be able to connect your distress to Lord Collins' presence.”

“His wife will. She knows, I can tell. She knows what happened, and she probably hates me for it. She may have spread the word already that I am a liar and a temptress and a worthless, wretched creature. She will want to get her revenge, even though her husband has already taken everything from me.”

Clarke expected him to try and comfort her, to say something reassuring and gentle and futile. What she did not expect was the flash of fury in his dark eyes, the hard, unsympathetic edge in his voice when he replied:

“He has _not_ taken everything from you; not even close. You still have your wit, and your grace, and your strength, and as far as I have seen, no one and nothing can take those from you. You are not defined by one youthful mistake, unless you let yourself be. Your value lies not in how full your dance card is or how impeccable your reputation, but in the fact that you extended a hand to an obscure young heir and his sister and helped them navigate this social quagmire. You helped a poor injured drunk without a moment's hesitation and patched him up without so much as a trembling hand. _That_ is what you are worth. Know your value, and never let anyone else define it for you.”

The passionate speech left Clarke's mind reeling with the possibility that he might be right. But the veil of dejectedness that had covered her in the months prior to the Blakes' entry into her life had lowered over her again, dark and heavy and now weighted with burning, poisonous fear. She shook her head, unable to believe him.

“That is all good and well, but you are forgetting that I am a woman. And in my circles, a woman, no matter how smart, strong, or accomplished, is nothing without the right man.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and from the stubborn jut of his chin she could practically see him refusing to accept her words. She envied him his idealism, even though she knew it stemmed only from the fact that he had not been living among their circles long enough to have seen their uglier faces.

But instead of a loud protest, another impassioned speech, his next words were uttered quietly, but no less sincerely:

“In my opinion, you never could be _nothing_ , Lady Clarke.”

The sentiment was the same as before, but the timbre of his voice had shifted, had become so warm that Clarke felt she could actually feel it on her skin, so intense that she had to turn her head away for fear of being burned by it.

His words may have calmed her fears, but they had caused quite a new uproar, and Clarke was almost glad to be startled by the sound of the door banging open, allowing in a flushed Octavia and a positively frenzied Jasper.

"Clarke! Are you unwell? I found Lady Octavia searching for a servants' entrance and saying that you needed a way to exit the premises unseen, and I have since been _sick_ with worry over you."

Clarke blushed, mortified to have even more friends witness her humiliation, and too overcome to think of any reassuring excuse. Luckily, Lord Blake saved her from having to explain.

"There's no need to worry, Lady Clarke is in excellent health. But a discreet exit is indeed exactly what we need right now, my friend. Lead the way."

Jasper, clearly unused to being ordered around like this, followed suit without ever inquiring as to the reason behind their need for such an exit.

Lord Blake extended his hand, a look of irrepressible determination on his face, and said with a voice full of comfort and compassion:

"Let's get you home, my Lady."

And Clarke took his hand and held on to it, all the way out to the coach waiting at the back of the building.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, we've finally learned the full story behind Clarke's not very mysterious past.  
> Obviously, since this fic features Bellamy Blake, it must contain at least one Inspirational Speech. “Know your value” is, of course, an homage to Agent Carter's “I know my value. Everyone else's opinion doesn't really matter”, which I think is the most inspiring TV quote ever.  
> As for Clarke and Jasper calling each other by their first names: I know that would have been highly unusual, but I like to imagine they're very old friends, or possibly cousins bc why not? Everyone was interrelated in those circles anyway (I think).  
> Things I am unsure about in this chapter: 1) Was the f-word actually used at that time, even as an extremely offensive word? 2) Was Clarke angsting too much about her “misstep” with Finn?  
> I don't know, you guys tell me. Or not.  
> Unfortunately, Finn does not play a very honourable part in this story. But the fact that he canonically cheated on Raven and Clarke is just so damn convenient for all kinds of plots.


	11. Chapter 11

Three days after the very eventful ball, Lady Clarke had yet to reemerge from taking to her bed with a supposed sudden illness. Octavia was becoming more worried about her friend by the hour. And Bellamy found himself making a very unexpected visit. It was not a visit he particularly looked forward to, nor was it in any way defensible by the laws of polite society. But it was a visit he felt needed to be made, for moral reasons if nothing else, and so he set out, for the first time in his life, to defend a lady's honour.

Bellamy had no idea when it had happened, but somehow, he had been pulled into the current of Lady Clarke Griffin's life and now found himself caring about her struggles. Of course, he told himself, it was the fact that Octavia was affected by her friend's sudden reclusiveness that motivated him. But while that may be true, the threat of Octavia pouting for a few days was not what occupied his mind as he knocked at the door of a Park Street address – it was the memory of Lady Clarke's face when she told him about her dalliance with Lord Collins, in a tone of voice that suggested someone had died that night, rather than simply fallen prey to a cad's artful flattery.

Of course Bellamy knew women of all walks of life had to guard their virtue much more carefully than men, and his sister too had been taught by their mother to do the same. But the women he had bedded in various ports during his years of service had never seemed nearly as worried. Apparently, it was one thing for a serving-girl to have a bit of a pre-marital fumble, and another entirely for the daughter of a peer.

And so it came about that Bellamy visited the Collins residence unannounced, ready to impress upon the master of the house the importance of discretion – with his fists, if necessary.

What he had not expected was to be led into the drawing-room to face the house's mistress, the Lady Raven Collins herself. So overwhelmed was he by this surprising development, Bellamy barely remembered to take a bow and make a few introductory remarks about the elegance of her sitting-room – remarks that Lady Clarke had made him learn by heart during their etiquette lessons – before he blurted out:

“Pray, is your husband not home at this hour?”

“He is not. He usually goes riding in Hyde Park in the afternoons. Is there anything in particular you needed to speak to him about?”

There was, but it would be the height of indelicacy to bring it up in this situation, so he fumbled for an excuse.

“Nothing urgent, no. Just a few questions pertaining to matters of business.”

The lady's face showed how little she was convinced by his excuse. “I was not aware you and my husband had any business together. In fact, I do not remember him ever mentioning you.”

“We have only been acquainted for a short time, and very superficially.” Bellamy was lying through his teeth by now and cursing the moment he had decided upon this course of action. Rather than help Lady Clarke, Bellamy realized, he was about to make things much, much worse. He needed to escape from Lady Raven's inquiring gaze and sharp questions. “I only heard from a mutual acquaintance that he made some profitable investments at the 'Change lately, and wanted to ask for his expertise for my own dealings.”

There, that was a plausible excuse. Now to make a quick, clean exit.

“But I can easily come back some other time, or convey my questions in a letter. I do not mean to impose upon your time, my Lady.”

He bowed stiffly and made his way to the door, trying not to appear too hasty. But before he had made it there, Lady Raven's voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Did you come here to speak to my husband about Lady Clarke?”

He froze, wondering if he could still flee or if such an action would only confirm her suspicions.

“Please tell me the truth Lord Blake.”

This time, her voice was enough to make him turn back around – there was such pain in it, he could not ignore her. Not to mention, a few short moments with Lady Raven had convinced him that she was not a woman to whom pleading came easily. The matter must weigh on her, and he found himself unable to shake off that weight as if it did not concern him.

“I did.” Her face hardened at the words, but she remained silent, waiting for him to continue, and he felt he owed it to her courage to tell her the truth. “The night of the Jordans' ball, she told me how your husband had mistreated her last season. I felt it my duty to see her honour protected.”

Now that he had detailed his intentions out loud, he realized how ridiculous he sounded – and how angry Lady Clarke would be if she ever found out what he was doing. _Protect her honour?_ He had a feeling that was the last thing she wanted, and he, in his helpless desire to do _something_ to alleviate the crawling unease he had felt since she told him about Lord Collins, had come here and made an ass of them both. Because of course, him running around talking about Lady Clarke's honour would lead people to assume only one thing:

“Are you engaged to the lady then, or otherwise connected?”

“No. We are not connected by anything other than friendship.” And with the first wave of anger at his own rashness came anger at this entire ludicrous situation, and most importantly, at the man who had managed to hurt two such admirable women. “But Lady Clarke is a good friend of my sister's, and since no one else felt it their responsibility to do anything about the situation, I decided to take it upon myself.”

“So you mean to challenge my husband to a duel?” That question was posed with a dubiously raised eyebrow.

“No. I mean to talk to him, impress upon him the error of his ways, and make sure he will never under any circumstances disclose to the world what happened between him and Lady Clarke.”

“Why? Should not other hapless men be made aware that there's a temptress in their midst, preying upon innocent men?”  
Bellamy smiled sardonically – he was not altogether sure that was what had happened. “I do believe an honourable man, married or not, would not let himself be preyed upon, no matter how tempting the lady in question.” Something flickered across Lady Raven's face for a moment, a sign perhaps of an unwelcome realization, and as much as Bellamy hated causing her further pain, he knew this was his moment to drive the point home.

“I know this must be difficult to hear, but – your husband may not have been a victim of seduction here. Nor, I hope, is he a villainous debaucher by nature. He may simply be a man who made a terrible decision, and now others are suffering for it, yourself included. No matter how much of the blame for the affair can be placed with Lady Clarke, she bears the full brunt of its consequences: While your husband simply went back to his comfortable home and married his beautiful fiancée, she stands to lose everything if word of this gets out. The burden to decide if the punishment for her youthful indiscretion should be this harsh lies entirely with you now. I do not know you, Lady Raven, but I hope you are merciful enough to make the right decision.”

“Does she still love him?”

“I cannot speak for her feelings. But I can assure you that, whatever they are, she does not intend to pursue your husband. She merely wants to go on with her life without having the threat of ruin hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles. You can give her that reassurance by promising to keep your knowledge of the affair to yourself.”

There was a long, heavy silence as Lady Raven pondered her decision and Bellamy tried to curb his anxiousness and remain silent himself. This moment would decide if he had made a very grave mistake in coming here; if instead of helping his friend, he had only exacerbated her situation.

“Very well then. I will keep quiet if she promises to stay away from my husband.”

“I am sure that is a promise she will be more than happy to make.” If he ever dared approach her with it, of course. For his part, Bellamy would much prefer it if Lady Clarke never found out about this visit.

The words once again caused a change in Lady Raven's demeanour, a softening of her features, and when she spoke once more, she sounded melancholy.

“Whatever else you may be to the fortunate Lady Clarke, you are a good friend. I hope she values you accordingly.”

Bellamy did not know how to react to the compliment, nor the implication hidden within it. It touched too close to something he had started to suspect himself lately. He deflected by returning the compliment:

“She owes more gratitude to you, my Lady, for being gracious and forgiving.” And deciding that those would make good parting words, he announced that he would take his leave now and bent over her hand to kiss it, a gesture he had practiced exceedingly often lately but never carried out with such honest meaning as now. If anyone deserved such a show of respect, it was Lady Raven.

***

 

Yet another day later, Octavia's patience having finally reached an end, she went to visit her wronged friend.  Determinedly breaking through every line of defense the household staff had erected, Octavia barrelled straight into a bedroom that showed no signs of a sick bed and startled Clarke from her lecture.

"I must say, I am very disappointed in you."

Clarke opened her mouth to defend herself - but was denied the opportunity, as Octavia immediately continued:

"I had expected better of you than to hide yourself away in here."

"I am not hiding. I was merely overcome with a summer cold."

"Yes, you look quite at death's door. Meanwhile I have been fielding invitations, and Bellamy is running about town trying to help you."

That information at least caused Clarke to set aside her book as she tried to figure out the meaning behind it. How would Lord Blake try to help her? And what, pray tell, did Octavia mean when she said he was "running about town"? Running about doing what, exactly? The thought was unnerving enough to propel her to her feet. Feeling the need to be ready for whatever calamity Lord Blake was about to bring to her door, Clarke quickly ducked behind a screen to get dressed.

But if Octavia had considered rousing her friend a success, her triumph was short-lived.

"What did he do?"

"Who?"

"Your brother."

"I merely meant to impress upon you how your friends worry when...'

"Octavia." Clarke's voice allowed no further evasion of the truth, and out it came.

"He went to confront Lord Collins."

Still in her chemise, Clarke stepped out from behind the screen again to stare at her friend, feeling the blood drain from her face and freeze in her veins.

Octavia hastened to reassure her.

"But no harm was done. He did not even meet the cad at home."

"There was no duel or other such nonsense?"

"He had no intention to challenge Lord Collins. He said he assumed you would not be happy if he killed Lord Collins."

"In this moment I think I might not be too unhappy if Lord Collins killed _him_! How _dare_ he!"

Despite her righteous anger, Clarke regretted her words the moment she said them. What a tasteless thing to say to Octavia, when for many years losing her brother must have been a constant fear.

"I am sorry, Octavia, I did not mean..."

"Oh, there's no need to apologise. Bellamy can be a bit rash, it is quite understandable to be upset."

Clarke blinked, startled by the experience of hearing Octavia call someone else rash.

"But you must believe me, no harm whatsoever will come from his visit. Your secret is still safe."

"How can I be sure of that?"

"Because Bellamy made sure of it." Stepping closer, Octavia took Clarke's hands in hers. "You have helped us so much these past months. Now you need to trust that we can help you for once. Can you not find it in yourself to do so?"

Could she? Clarke knew not what to think in that moment. On the one hand, the thought of Lord Blake acting so impertinently on her behalf was infuriating, and the possibility that he might have only exacerbated the situation filled her with dread. On the other hand, she felt strangely moved by the idea that someone had felt it their duty to help her. Lord Blake apparently been ready to fight another man over her honour, regardless of the ramifications for his own or his sister's reputation, and had only foregone a duel because he feared she would disapprove... It was more than anyone had ever been ready to do for her, and she wondered how on earth she deserved such devotion.

As all these thoughts raced through her head, Octavia had been watching her  worriedly, hands still clasping hers, and Clarke was struck with one sudden reassuring thought: that Lord Collins had very little power to hurt her now that she had such friends on her side. And so, in what should have been a dark hour, Clarke suddenly found herself able to look at her own situation and not despair. There was nought to be done now in any case - if Lord Blake had failed in keeping Finn silent, she was as good as ruined. But if he had succeeded... then she may yet get her future back.

"I can certainly try."

Smiling shakily, Clarke squeezed her friend's hands – and had her entire person squeezed in return.

"Wonderful! Now we shall enjoy the delights of the Season together once more. You have been sorely missed these past days, let me tell you! Bellamy only made me attend dreadfully boring and educational places..."

While Clarke returned to the task of making herself presentable again after four days spent as some sort of modern day hermit manner, Octavia rattled of a list of places she had been forced to visit, much to her chagrin. It seemed that, in the absence of a chaperone, Lord Blake had chosen to seclude his sister from society, which may have been a sensible choice but made her all the more determined to get back into the fray.

Clarke had barely finished tying the back of her dress when Octavia was already dragging her out the door, still complaining of the injustices she had suffered through.

"And then we hardly got to speak for being positively _beleaguered_ by ladies. It is no exaggeration to say that they fell upon us in droves, it was the most ridiculous thing."

Clarke did not have anything to reply to that particular information, but she did suddenly have trouble putting on her glove, her movements turning fitful and imprecise. Octavia did not notice.

"And Bellamy had nothing better to do than turn into a recreation of Lot's wife, can you imagine... oh, but here he is now!"

And indeed, Lord Blake was standing in the Griffins's hall with her father, presumably having returned from lunch at the club. Octavia skipped down the last few steps, completely unfazed by the fact that she had just been caught gossipping about her brother, but Lord Blake seemed not to have caught her words anyway. He was looking up the stairs at Clarke, his eyes searching her face the way they had when she had been shoved to the ground at the harbour: as if he was looking for wounds to tend to, though he knew well they would be invisible this time.

Clarke had to pour all her mental strength into the simple task of descending the stairs, and had no opportunity to try and come up with anything to say beyond a small greeting.

Lord Blake seemed equally tongue-tied, to Clarke's surprise. What had he to be embarrassed about? It was not _his_ darkest secret that had been revealed mere days ago, not him who had fainted and needed rescuing from something to innocuous as a ball. The only thing he should be nervous about was the reprimand he could expect from her for involving himself in her private matters, and he had no way of knowing Octavia had divulged that particular information.

Then she finally remembered that she had already decided to forgive him for his overhasty intervention, and resolutely decided that there was no longer any need for any of this awkwardness.

“Well, Lord Blake, your sister has lured me out of my room. Are you to whisk me away from my home?“

There was a bit of a strain to her voice that made the lightness ring hollow, but Clarke's intent was nonetheless clear: She had spent enough time pitying herself.

Lord Blake, it seemed, received the message.

“You have wholly uncovered our nefarious plan. I am to suggest taking a walk in St. James' Park, to tempt you with the promise of fresh air.“

The suggestion was not only perfectly reasonable, it also served to make Clarke feel both very proud and somewhat surprised. Who would have thought that brooding, stormy-gazed Lord Blake would ever extend such a polite and genteel invitation? And one that showed how much he had learned about the workings of London society: He had understood by now that they may not undertake their walk without another person present, and, though perhaps on purpose, had chosen a venue for their excursion that was much less fashionable and crowded than Hyde Park, and thus posed little risk of them running into the Collins's again.

And who would have thought that Clarke, who had been so convinced that her social life had come to an end with the arrival of the Collins's in town, would be so happy to agree to the suggestion?

But off they went, both Octavia and her father joining them, and soon Clarke was strolling across the soft grass, with the sun shining on her head, Octavia's bright laugh and her brother's melodious bass combining into a pleasant symphony, and Lord Collins and their very unpleasant reunion slowly retreated to the back of her mind.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was the opposite of drama, but we can't always have drama. Sometimes we need a bit of filler chapter that was mostly posted because I've had a shit week and it's only getting worse and I'm hoping for some comments for validation. Not that this information should influence anyone in their commenting preferences, of course.  
> All jokes aside, I really wish I had a good reason to put more Raven in there. And I'm scared Octavia is getting a little too manic pixie dream girl, but oh well.  
> Also, "Lady Raven Collins" sounds very very strange.


	12. Chapter 12

After her brush with scandal, Clarke may have been reluctant to attend all but the most intimate gatherings. But there were still plenty of diversions to be had. Chief among them were trips to St. James's Park, where few fashionable people could witness Clarke's newest endeavour: Teaching Lord Blake how to steer a horse-drawn vehicle. Which, Clarke would tell anyone should they think to ask, had not been her idea.

The Marquess had, rather unwisely, mentioned his possession of a rarely used but well-cared-for Phaeton at Brooks', at which point several of the gentlemen present had invited him to join them for trips to the countryside. Clarke's father, being his usual helpful self, had promised Lord Blake to teach him - and had promptly cut his hands on one of his mechanical experiments. Heavily bandaged, the Earl now sat in the back of the Phaeton with Octavia after talking Clarke into taking up the role of tutor.

Being a somewhat proficient driver was one accomplishment Clarke usually kept hidden. But being born and raised in the country and fiercely fond of her independence, she had long ago pestered her father into showing her how to drive their trusty old cart. Over the years, she had progressed to driving faster vehicles, and had finally been allowed to practise with her father's Phaeton in an attempt to cheer her up during a particularly boring summer. In short, Clarke had been spoiled into possessing the very skill Lord Blake now needed, and there was no question of not passing it on.

As always, Clarke had dutifully voiced her doubts about the appropriateness of the scheme - and as always, she had been summarily ignored. At the very least, she had managed to convince her father to have his groom drive the carriage out of town so they could begin practising out in the country, far away from prying eyes - or so she thought.

After taking a few laps around a small copse of trees, the party had descended to partake of the picnic Clarke had brought along. While Octavia spread out their blanket and rustic feast and helped the Earl sit down, Clarke was immersed in demonstrating to Lord Blake the proper care of the horses when a lone carriage approached.

She intended to pay it no mind, only glancing up out of sheer curiosity - and promptly froze mid-movement. For the man approaching them, on a curricle so high-seated it bordered on the ridiculous, was none other than Lord Collins.

Clarke had expected to run into him again, had told herself to be strong if she did. But she was not ready for him to suddenly burst into their innocent diversion.

Not wanting to let him see her discomposed a second time, Clarke stepped out from behind the carriage to greet him with a perfectly executed curtsey.

Lord Collins' curricle came to a stop aside theirs and he let his eyes rove over the small party. They lingered on her for a long moment, his face softening into a wistful smile that Clarke was almost tempted to return. Alas, the smile disappeared as suddenly as it had come about when Lord Blake stepped up beside her. Another moment passed before he addressed Lord Blake, who was now standing nearest to him.

"I do believe we have recently become acquainted - Lord Blake, is it not?"

The Lord in question nodded curtly in reply. "At Brooks'."

He supplied no further information, making it apparent that a conversation was not desired.

His hint was ignored, as Lord Collins nodded at the Phaeton behind them, no doubt having heard at the club that Lord Blake's days as a driver were only just beginning.

"I see you are practising with a fine vehicle. Care to take it for a race?"

His suggestion was met with silence, but the Lord was not giving up on his endeavour.

“Every peer worth his salt ought to be able to boast of having won at least one race. What say you, Lord Blake – would you like to try your hand at it right now? At the very least, it will impress the ladies.”

This statement was accompanied by a glance in Clarke's direction that made her clench her hands in anger, though Lord Blake remained uncharacteristically calm. Noticing his unusual restraint, Clarke felt a surge of pride. He had apparently taken her counsel to heart and decided not to make a scene in public, and for that she was both grateful and flattered.

But of herself, Clarke was ashamed. Here was a man who had wronged both her and another innocent woman, taunting her friend, and she would let such behaviour pass uncommented? That would not do.

And before anyone else could get a word in, Clarke pushed the reins in Lord Blake's hands, climbed atop the coach box, and said in her most haughty voice:

“Lord Blake will be happy to accept your challenge.”

For all Clarke knew how to express things without actually stating them out loud, she was sure she had never had occasion to convey vengeance and fury with a single glance. And yet, she apparently knew to communicate just that, as one look at Lord Blake was enough to make him join her atop the box, giving her a short, determined nod as he gripped the reins tightly.

Lord Blake manoeuvred the Phaeton in position next to the curricle, and Lord Collins motioned for Octavia to come forward and give them a starting signal. She did, dropping her handkerchief with an expression so full of disdain it suggested she would rather see Lord Collins dropped to the ground instead.

The wisp of linen fluttered to the dusty road, and off they went. For a short while, they were matched evenly, their horses head-to-head as they raced along the broad road. But soon Lord Collins pulled ahead. Perhaps it was the fact that his vehicle must be lighter than theirs; perhaps his horses were fresh out the stable or perhaps he simply managed to urge them faster, but soon the curricle pulled ahead of the Marquess's Phaeton.

With a growl, Clarke yanked the reins out of her companion's hands and took them herself - finding, to her surprise, that the reins were not nearly as loose as they should be. She loosened them a little, and the horses promptly sped up. Clarke shot Lord Blake a questioning look to find him smiling at her, head cocked towards the road ahead of him, and Clarke wondered if he had slowed the horses on purpose to provoke her. His next words suggested he had:

"Go get him."

And she did. Giving the horses the full reins, Clarke soon had them catching up with Lord Collins, then overtaking his curricle, and then she was racing ahead, triumph surging wildly through her. Her hair had come loose from the wind, strands of it whipping about her face, and her arms were soon straining with the effort of holding on to the side of the box so as not to go flying off. She need not have worried: when a bump in the road threatened to topple her over the side, Lord Blake's hand closed around her arm and held her fast, and Clarke could devote her attention to the race instead of worrying overmuch about her safety.

Soon Octavia came into view, indicating the completion of their lap, and Clarke urged the horses on one more time, seeing out of the corner of her eyes that Lord Collins was doing the same thing.

Having passed the starting point of their race, Clarke gradually slowed the excited horses down until they came to a stop. Before she could hand the reins back to Lord Blake, however, their opponent rolled up beside them, levelling Clarke with a disdainful look. Instead of congratulating them on a well-earned win, he remarked:

“I fear the company you keep is not doing you any favours, my Lady. I'd sooner expect such a mannish display at a harbour tavern than around persons of our rank.”

It had no doubt been intended as an insult, but to Clarke, still practically vibrating with excitement, it sounded like the most delightful jest. For Clarke was quite sure that, mannish or not, she had done more good outside a harbour tavern than she had ever done in London's shops, parks or drawing-rooms.

Instead of defending herself, Clarke simply burst into laughter – clear, loud peals of it that echoed across the fields. The fact that it was unwise to do so in front of Octavia, whom she had to often lectured about adopting a more unobtrusive mien, was not lost on her. But here she was, laughing in the face of the man who had risked her ruin, and it was the most poetic justice she could have ever imagined.

With one last disdainful look, Lord Collins cracked his whip and sped off, and Clarke gradually managed to stop laughing and regain her breath. She was sure she had never behaved so shamelessly in her entire life – or felt such triumph. And she had but one man to thank for it, Clarke knew. Turning to Lord Blake, Clarke laid her hand gently on his arm.

“Thank you.“

“I did nothing you could not have done by yourself.“

“Perhaps not. But you gave me an excuse to do it, and for that I thank you.”

He smiled bashfully, looking this way and that as his hand came up to rub the back of his neck, knocking his cravat askew in the process.

“I assumed it was the best way of giving you a chance at vengeance short of handing you my pistol and calling for a duel.”

Clarke laughed.

“And I assure you, it was best you did not, for I would have taken you up on the offer in a heartbeat.”

“I know.”

The smile accompanying the words was warm, affectionate and, Clarke fancied, held a hint of pride as well – just enough to make warmth blossom in her chest, and manifest itself in a blush that caused her to quickly turn away and clamber off the coach. She took a seat on the blanket with her father and Octavia, determinedly ignoring both Octavia's broad grin and her father's exaggeratedly innocent remark about the success of Lord Blake's first race. 

And thus passed the shadow of her first Season, chased off by sunshine and laughter and the unexpected, unmitigated triumph of winning her first race.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what this chapter is, or if I like it, or if it fits in with the story... but here, have a (tiny) chapter. I had to post something before I'd drop out of it completely.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I only posted half a chapter last time, I managed to finish another one really quickly.

With Lady Clarke persuaded to return to society as his sister's companion, Bellamy found to his relief that it no longer fell upon him alone to entertain and guide his insatiable sister. The ladies returned to their preferred activities, Bellamy, Lady Kane or Lord Griffin were asked to chaperone whenever necessary, and Bellamy could focus his attention once more on his own affairs, namely his lessons in running an estate with Lord Griffin and his trusted solicitor. He learned new things every day, greedily soaking up whatever knowledge his friend passed along – although the Earl often remarked that he was not a true expert.

“You ought to be apprenticed to my wife in these matters – in her hands rests the true bulk of our affairs, which is why she stayed behind in the country while I took Clarke to London.”

This surprised Bellamy. He had sometimes wondered why Lady Griffin was not with her husband and daughter in the city, but had assumed it was due to some illness, and had not wanted to be tactless enough to ask.

“You see, my wife is the pragmatic one. Me, I am too prone to get lost tinkering and experimenting, and would soon let our house burn down above our heads if left to my own devices. So Lady Griffin has taken up the mantle of the Lord of Arrow House, and I am trying to be mother and father alike to our daughter. With some success, I dare say.”

The Earl smiled mischievously. Perhaps his thoughts were taking the same direction as Bellamy's: That not many people who had seen his daughter's exploits recently would agree with his ideas about parenting, at least not among their peers. In fact, many would deem her actions inappropriate, shocking even. But Bellamy was not among them, and he suspected the Earl was well aware of it.

“But this puts me in mind of a most promising scheme”, Lord Griffin exclaimed, tearing Bellamy out of his straying thoughts. “As soon as the Season is ended, you and your sister will simply have to accompany Clarke and I to Arrow House and stay for a while. You'll learn as much from my wife in a single day as I would teach you in a week. Besides,” another winning smile, “hunting is fantastic in our little corner of the world. And that I _can_ teach you.”

Bellamy was familiar enough with his friend's mind by now to know that a plan was as quickly decided as it was formed, but he found he did not mind having his time disposed of in this manner. He had sometimes heard Lady Clarke speak of her home to Octavia, in such reverent tones that he had become quite curious. The place must be a veritable Garden of Eden, to make the pragmatic Lady Clarke turn so lyrical, and he was curious to see it for himself. (And, he knew though he dared not admit it, curious to see Lady Clarke in her natural habitat, where he imagined each day would see her looking as radiant and happy as she sometimes did here, as she had when they danced, when she joked around with Octavia, and, most freshly impressed upon his mind, when she had beat Lord Collins at their race.)

But before any of their plans could come to fruition, life intervened: The merry carousel of the marriage market spun on and Bellamy cursed the fact that he was in charge of a sister when clearly, a young brother would mean much less trouble – and much fewer hopeful suitors knocking on his door.

For Octavia received her first offer of marriage... and promptly turned it down.

Bellamy was hard pressed to decide which part of these news he ought to welcome and which to bemoan. On the one hand, finding a husband was one of their tasks this Season, and among the young bachelors he had met so far, Lord Jordan was as well-meaning, polite and well-situated as he could possibly wish for, if a little excitable. Lady Clarke, too, would no doubt readily vouch for him as a good choice in a brother-in-law. But no sooner had Bellamy thus persuaded himself to allow the younger man's suit than Octavia announced her decision to reject him, and Bellamy was left reeling.

All of his questions as to why yielded no result. Octavia simply and emphatically stated that she liked and respected Lord Jordan greatly but that she could not find it in her heart to marry him. And Bellamy in turn could not find it in his heart to try and persuade or even force her to change her mind. After all, his sister's happiness was not to be subordinate to any other matter, marriage included. And had he not money enough now to allow Octavia to make her own choices no matter the result?

So Bellamy accepted her decision, and was rewarded with Lady Clarke's approval when he told her so – approval that came with a genuine, if somewhat distracted smile and the reassurance that Octavia would be sensible enough to choose a good man she could love when the time came.

The Lady in question, he later found out, had some matters of her own to occupy her mind, he later found out: A scant few days after Octavia had received and turned down her first proposal, she burst into his study to exclaim:

“Clarke has a suitor!”

Confusingly, this was uttered not with the kind of triumphant voice he would expect, but with a tone bordering on disgust – not that his own excitement at the news surpassed his sister's in any way. The only thing Bellamy felt upon hearing of Lady Clarke's suitor was a sudden bout of irritation – although surely this vexation was simply due to the damp weather, and any other news would have put him in the same ill mood.

“What happy news for her,” he ground out, wishing suddenly that Lady Clarke's suitor was such a terrible and unpleasant person as to make it impossible for her to accept his attentions. And it seemed his wish was being granted:

“I would not be so sure of that. The man puts me in a bad humour, and Clarke clearly cannot stand him. And yet she encourages his attentions.”

Now Bellamy felt guilty for wishing upon his friend an unwanted admirer. “Perhaps she can stand him after all then. Stranger things have happened. Plenty of people start out at odds and still find themselves falling in love.”

Octavia gave him a strange look. “I know _that_. But I am quite sure this is not the case here.” She fell silent momentarily, pondering something. “We shall have to keep a close eye on him, find out what kind of man we are dealing with.”

“I do not believe Lady Clarke would appreciate such meddling.”

“Psh, meddling! We are merely looking out for her. Clarke is our friend, after all – we are not letting her marry just _anyone_.”

Well, on that at least they agreed. But while his sister's involvement in the matter no doubt sprung from a wish to protect her friend and assure her happiness, Bellamy had a suspicion his own motives were much less honourable, and much more selfish.

***

 

But what of Lady Clarke's suitor?

There was indeed such a person, and as Octavia had suspected, he was indeed less than welcome – and yet his attention was not rejected, his invitation to an outing not denied.

For though Lord Collins had been (hopefully) silenced, her brush with scandal had reminded Clarke once more of how precarious her position was, how imperative it was that she secure a husband, and soon. That, after all, was her duty in life.

And so, loath as she was to the thought of giving up her relative independence to a husband, she let herself be introduced to Lord Wallace, conversed and then danced with him, well aware that he would solve all her problems in one fell swoop. For Lord Wallace, as he informed her upon their very first meeting, was the so far unknown heir to Arrow House, the distant cousin whom law and society had placed above her. The man who could take the home she held dear – or give it back, should she succeed in binding him to her.

Consequently, Clarke told herself, encouraging Lord Wallace's suit was not so much a question of what she wanted to do, but what she ought to. And surely the simple act of furthering their acquaintance would not mean a proposal would be forthcoming, or that she'd have to make up her mind about him any time soon. Surely there would be a little more time left before she'd be shepherded into the state of matrimony; time she could spend with her friends, time to dance and laugh out loud and race carriages around country roads.... even if only for a little while longer.

This was the conundrum Clarke was struggling with, and as such, no person of feeling could fault her for failing to pay attention to her friend and charge at all times. And surely, no one could fault her for the letter that appeared in Lord Blake's study when he returned from a dance his sister had begged off from but convinced him to attend in order to keep an eye on Lady Clarke's suitor.

***

 

The letter in question turned out to be the only trace of Bellamy's supposedly sick sister in an otherwise empty house, and no sooner had he read it that he turned white as a sheet and sank down on the nearest chair, completely stupefied.

Bellamy did not know how long he sat there, but suddenly there was a great commotion outside his study and Lady Clarke burst in, holding a letter with the same spindly script.

“Octavia! Did she... did you...?”

She was still out of breath, and judging by this fact and her slightly damp hair, Bellamy wondered if Lady Clarke had run here through the soft drizzle showering the trees outside. But the thought failed to penetrate the fog in his head, as did any other coherent thought. All he could do was nod dumbly and hold out the letter for his friend to peruse, which she did while aggravatedly walking up and down in front of his desk.

“I cannot believe her! Eloping? What is she thinking?! What is _he_ thinking?”

The “he” in question was a man Bellamy had never expected to play any part in such a betrayal: Mister Lincoln, Clarke's old friend and his and Octavia's patient and faithful dancing master – or so he had thought.

“But there has to be some sort of explanation. It cannot be as she writes. I cannot believe Mister Lincoln would ever do such a thing... he is an honourable man!”

“Even honourable men do dishonourable things if they fancy themselves enough in love.”

The remark came out sounding like a very mean-spirited comment on her own history, but luckily, Lady Clarke ignored his interjection.

“Of course, we must after them with all possible haste. How fast can your groom have your carriage ready? Although perhaps we should rent a post chaise instead, no need to parade your family crest around Gretna Green... We shall need money too, and quite a sum of it – desperate families are the prime victims of steep rates.”

Bellamy was still staring at the letter clutched in her hands, thoroughly overwhelmed by the night's events and only roused when Lady Clarke planted herself before him, hands on her hips, to look at him expectantly.

“What are you waiting for? Will you not go after her? Oh but we must!”

“We?” The word, croaked out through a painfully dry throat, was the first thing he had said since she had burst in, Bellamy realized, and promptly proceeded to fill a healthy portion of brandy into a crystal tumbler placed on his desk, downing it in one gulp.

“Of course I am coming with you.”

The brandy at least had made him alert enough to understand what Lady Clarke was planning – and how very much he ought not to support it. He had abandoned one woman to debauchery and moral decay, he would not let another suffer the same fate.

“Absolutely not. Octavia is my sister. My responsibility.”

“And mine as well. I was the one who promised to guide and chaperone her, to keep her safe from fortune hunters and rash decisions. I was the one who introduced her to Mister Lincoln. This is _my_ fault, and I will not be kept from trying to prevent an even more dire outcome. So either you take me with you, or I will be forced to sneak into my father's coach house and take our coach myself.”

“You would not do such a thing.”

“The only way you can be sure of that is by taking me with you.”

Bellamy resisted the urge to smash his glass against the nearest wall. It was bad enough to be saddled with one unruly woman, but two of the sort? And yet, everything from Lady Clarke's defiant glare to her stance – solid as if she was readying herself for withstanding an attack – told him that to try and dissuade her would be a waste of precious time.

And perhaps, he thought a little while later as he took her silk-gloved hand to help her into a hackney carriage, perhaps it was better this way. At the very least, the thought of having someone by his side during what would surely be a harrowing trip was comforting – especially since that someone was Lady Clarke, in equal parts strong and savvy, and determined to brave the coming storm, together.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know that thing on the show where they just cannot catch a break? Yep. Same thing happening here. Sorry.   
> On a different note, I'd like to thank all of you for your many, many sweet comments - they are such a joy and motivate me. Thank you!  
> And to finish with some shameless self-promotion: If any of you would like to show your appreciation by nominating this fic (or any of my others) for a Bellarke fanfiction award, that would be lovely. (Shameless, I told you.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spurred on by the lovely nominations I received for the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards, I managed to finish another half-written chapter. This too got shorter than intended, but it felt right to cut it off where I did. A quick word of warning though: There will be major levels of implausible behaviour. Just loads of it. But it's all for a good cause, and that cause is.... *drumroll* unresolved sexual tension!

 

Hours later, they were on their way north in a post chaise just as Clarke had suggested. It had taken some time and a fair amount of money to convince the post master to rouse a driver and ready a set of horses at this late hour, and by the time they finally left London behind, morning soon started to dawn in the east.

Neither of the two inhabitants of the carriage seemed to mourn the missing sleep, however: both were engaged in feverish speculation, with Lord Blake berating himself for leaving his sister unattended and Clarke trying to distract and console him by cooking up scheme after scheme to avert greater damage.

"We could bring her to Arrow House and I can stay there with her while you return to London. Should anyone ask, I was called home when my mother suddenly fell ill, and Octavia accompanied me to be by my side in this difficult time. My mother lives reclusively enough that no one should have visited her while we were on the road. None will be the wiser."

Lord Blake failed to muster the enthusiasm to respond with more than a meaningless murmur to the suggestion - not the first one she had offered in the past hour - but turned his head away to stare out the window instead. For once, however, Clarke could not fault him for being rude. Worry and tiredness were so clearly etched upon his face that Clarke wished he were a drawing, and she the artist with the power to erase them with a few bold strokes.

She fell silent herself, realising it would be both cruel and pointless to keep tormenting him with forced cheer and false reassurances. The next few hours passed in silence, dawn revealing a bleak, overcast day that did nothing to lift her spirits. It was a long, silent day which gave Clarke ample time to torture herself with the when and how of the events that must have led up to their current situation - and to find herself soon altogether swamped with guilt. After all, had it not been her assigned task to not only introduce Octavia to society but to keep her far away from its many pitfalls and temptations? And she had failed, catastrophically so, and had allowed ruin to befall the one family that had been dear to her these past months - all for the sake of wallowing in self-pity over her own mistakes.

She had no doubt Lord Blake blamed her as well - after all, he had spent the last ten years among men, aboard a ship, and could not possibly be expected to spot the first signs of a tender attachment formed by a young female heart. Clarke, however, should have noticed what was happening right under their noses. Alas, Clarke had been too preoccupied with her own heart.

When Lord Blake spoke again much later, she half-expected him to repeat the punishing sermon her own mind had delivered so masterfully. Instead, however, his voice was tense but gentle when he said:

"We should descend at the next stop and rent rooms for the night. You must be exhausted."

"We would loose too much time. Better just to change horses and push on."

"I cannot force you to spend another night on the road."

"You are not forcing me if I am perfectly willing to do so."

He looked sceptical, clearly about to protest another time, if only for politeness' sake, and Clarke was determined not to let him. She had done enough damage; she would not let him waste precious time for her comfort, even if every bone in her body ached from being tossed about at the punishing pace and her arm was sore from trying to hold fast to the door.

"One night without a soft bed will not kill me, I assure you."

And so they continued as Clarke had suggested, only stopping to partake of a brief meal as their horses were changed and their driver took his leave in exchange for a better-rested substitute.

But although her assertion that she could do without a bed for once had been genuine and her determination to find Octavia was quite unwavering, Clarke found that her body was weakening, her eyes drooping shut in regular intervals long before the sun had fully set. Not that her travelling companion would have minded if she did fall asleep: Lord Blake had once more descended into brooding silence.

Nonetheless, she would feel heartless were she to fall asleep on him – not that she could: With every step the horses took on the rough road, the carriage shook and rattled, and Clarke shook and rattled with it. Every time her eyes drifted shut, her body started leaning to one side or the other, only for her to fall over and bump into her silent companion or, if she was less lucky, the side of the carriage. To make matters worse, she had not had time to change out of her silk evening gown and tightly-laced long stays, making her both cold and uncomfortable. It was a problem that had become apparent to her shortly after they had departed from London, but the urgency of the situation and the feverish employment of thinking up schemes to save her friend had distracted her for a while. But now Clarke was quite out of distractions, and the cold of an unusually damp and overcast day began to seep through her thin but fashionable clothes.

No, there was no risk of her falling asleep on the poor Lord Blake.

As if he had sensed her thoughts turning to him, Lord Blake chose this moment to turn his head and fix his eyes on her, studying her for a long moment while she tried to look brave and unaffected. But all her efforts were powerless against the cold, and try as she might, Clarke could not stop from trembling with it.

Lord Blake abruptly held out his arm, his coat billowing out like a giant bat's wing. Were she less tired, the sight would have made her giggle. As it was, it only confused her.

“Come here.”

“Why?”

“So you can lean against me, leech off some of my warmth and be at least moderately more comfortable. We have a long ride and a difficult mission ahead of us. Since you insisted on accompanying me, you should make sure to rest so you can be of some use when we reach our destination.”

Apparently, Lord Blake was still not reconciled with her decision to accompany him. But did he have to be quite so rude about it?

And yet.... the offer was tempting. Between the cold, her uncomfortable attire and being tossed about in this rickety menace of a vehicle, perhaps a shoulder to lean against would be just what she needed. And perhaps, since he had so gallantly offered to share his warmth, her companion might be persuaded to aid in other matters as well, and take some of the strain off the laces on her stays.... but for all their recent intimacy, _that_ was beyond unthinkable – not just for propriety's sake but because her insides had developed a habit of tightening like a spring whenever he touched her, however innocently.

So she silently rebuffed the offer, if such it could be called, and turned her gaze to the dark sky outside, lulled to an uneasy slumber once more by the landscape rushing past the window against a rapidly darkening sky.

Her resistance lasted until the next bump in the road sent her careening again, her temple slamming painfully into the side of the carriage with such force that only Lord Blake's outstretched hand on her arm prevented serious injury.

Instead, the momentum of his sharp tug, even if it was well-intended, yanked her sideways against him, and she ended up draped across his chest, her face a mere hand's breadth away from his.

“Now will you stop being so stubborn and lean against me so I can keep you from tumbling about?”

Struggling off him, Clarke was about to offer a resounding “no!” when she made a discovery that was her downfall: He was warm. Deliciously, enviably warm and, judging by the way he leaned back into the cushions, rather comfortable as well. In short, he was everything she was not right now, and everything she wanted to be. And so, cheeks burning in embarrassment, Clarke nodded her acquiescence. But instead of taking up a seat closer to him on the wide bench, she only sat gingerly on the edge of the seat with her back turned to him. Slipping her spencer jacket off her shoulders, Clarke tried to keep her voice even as she asked:

“Would you be so kind as to play the lady's maid and untie the laces on my stays so I can loosen them?”

When her request was met with silence, Clarke explained: “My maid laced me up tight for my evening gown. I will not be able to do much _leaning_ like this.”

“I should not.... I cannot possibly...”

Clarke rolled her eyes at his stuttered protest. Of course he  _should_ not – he should be nowhere near her stays, and she should not even be thinking about letting him undress her, let alone suggesting it out loud. But he had planted the idea of being warm and cozy in her mind, and now she would not rest until she was. Besides, they should not even be in this carriage together in the first place, racing to Gretna Green as if they themselves intended to elope. Propriety, it seemed, was something they had left behind in London on their hasty chase after Octavia.

“You were the one to offer to make me more comfortable. Are you rescinding that offer now?”

Silence again, for so long Clarke was starting to get impatient. Then, suddenly, she felt his fingertips on the back of her neck, promisingly warm. What was not promising, however, was the rough and clumsy way he handled her collar, feeling around for a button to undo the top of her gown and gain access to her stays. Impatient, Clarke lifted her hands and did it herself, trying to ignore the flash of heat that shot through her when their hands met and he sucked in a sharp breath at the contact.

With the first barrier out of the way, she tried to focus on something, anything else while he pushed aside her gown and petticoat just far enough so he could fumble around for the laces of her stays, his uneven breathing brushing past her neck when he bent his head to look at the intricate lacing.

Clarke, meanwhile, tried to transport her mind anywhere but here. Surely there was _something_ more important to occupy her thoughts than the fact that his hands were trembling slightly, and that she could feel their warmth through the thin material of her shift on her lower back? Or that, when another bump in the road threatened to throw her off the edge of the seat and his hands clamped down on her upper arms to hold her fast, the contact resembled the touch of a red-hot brand on her skin?

But her mind supplied nothing that did not revolve around the man behind her.

When he steadied her and his palms slid down her arms before returning to the laces of her stays, she could feel the callouses on them, no doubt a remnant from his days at sea – a stark physical reminder of who she was with, as well as a startling demonstration of the kinds of reactions his touch could evoke within her. Already her cheeks were burning, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, and she prayed that he would just hurry up already (and resolved to talk to Harper about her impossibly tight knots).

And yet, when the knot finally gave and he let go of her, allowing her a second to pry out the wooden busk at the front of her stays before he tied up her dress again, Clarke felt the absence of his touch as acutely as she had felt the heat of it before. She shuddered and yanked up her jacket with such force her arms got stuck in it for a second.

Clarke dared not look at her travelling companion when she scooted back onto the bench, too vividly could she still feel the imprint of his fingertips. And then there had been that moment when the heat of his skin on hers had procured the shockingly delightful spectre of him pushing off her dress and stays entirely so that every inch of her could enjoy his caresses... But if she was to preserve even a modicum of propriety, such thoughts must be banished from her mind. It was imperative that Lord Blake did not perceive how flustered she was – it had been her idea to bring him into contact with parts of her attire that he should by rights know nothing about, and she would not admit that it had been a terrible idea. And so, determined to make light of the situation and still eager to pursue her goal of finally being less uncomfortable, Clarke took up Lord Blake's offer and leaned against him, lightly and stiffly, and still determinedly staring straight ahead.

For several moments, he simply left her like this, propped against him like a lifeless doll. But then she succumbed to the cold and shivered, and in a flash, his arm was around her shoulders and her form molded against his side, allowing him to wrap her into the folds of his spacious greatcoat. The delicious wave of warmth washed away the last of her decorum, and with a little sigh, Clarke slung her arms around him, allowing her icy hands to be thawed by the warmth seeping through his silk vest.

It was a situation unlike any Clarke had ever found herself in: feeling at once comfortable and deeply uneasy, lulled to sleep by the motions of the carriage now that a solid body cushioned her from their impact and yet kept wide awake by the fact of that very same body: its strength, noticeable even through layers of starched clothing; its warmth and solidity and sheer _maleness_.

In the end, however, her tired body subdued her racing thoughts, her thundering heart slowed down, her eyes drooped shut again, and another feeling won out over her confusion and worry: That of being, for the moment at least, completely and perfectly safe. She fell asleep easily with that thought in mind, and woke only when the carriage pulled up to a post at dawn for a change of horses.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this the longest carriage-ride in the history of Bellarke AUs? Probably, yes. Was it kind of weird of Bellamy to be wearing a greatcoat in the summer? Also, probably, yes. Was it worth it? I really hope so.  
> I have to thank two friendly tumblr people for helping me with this chapter: Robbstrk, who helped me with carriage times, and Nourgelitnius, who, once again, helped me with basically everything.  
> Also, I think I'm just always going to have nap time in my Bellarke fics from now on, simply because they deserve it.


	15. Chapter 15

The second day of their trip found Bellamy even more taciturn than before, but this time his thoughts were not entirely occupied by fears about Octavia. In fact, last night there had been moments when he had altogether forgotten that his sister - or anyone else for that matter - even existed.

And even now, the spectre of not finding Octavia, of finding her harmed or unhappy, was battling against memories of last night, and of the very improper things that had occurred. Not too long ago, he would have sneered at deeming the incident improper. After all, what had really happened? Some stays had been adjusted - they were not the first stays he had laid hands on, nor, he hoped, would they be the last. A lady had been protected from the cold, and from being tossed about during a rough ride - surely that could not be deemed anything less than chivalrous?

But then, it was not the thought of what had happened that troubled him but what he had wished _would_ happen: When the lady had bent her neck before him, in a gesture any animal would know to interpret as complete trust, he had felt the overwhelming urge to press the softest of kisses to the pale skin. When her hair, tousled and half-undone as it had been from the rough trip, had brushed the backs of his hands, he had itched to undo it and run his fingers through the golden bounty. When his hands had delved beneath the fine layers of her dress, he had wanted nothing more than to let them travel further until they met bare skin, and then to read that impossibly soft skin like a map and let it guide him to unknown treasures...

Just the thought of it threatened to undo him, and Bellamy forced his attention to more practical matters. One more change of horses, the driver had said when they had stopped briefly this morning, and they would be at Greta Green. Where, in addition to finding his sister, he would need to keep Lady Clarke out of sight lest she be spotted, to procure lodgings for the night and a bigger vehicle for the trip back, and deal with... Whatever there was to deal with.

He could not afford to idle in lecherous thoughts of his travelling companion, and seeing what she was sacrificing to be here and help him, he thought she did not deserve to be at the centre of such thoughts at all.

The grey daylight made the memory seem ever more surreal and unlikely, and perhaps that was for the best - perhaps this would make it easier to accept that something like this would never happen again, no matter how much he wished it would. In the darkest, coldest hours last night, before he had reluctantly let sleep drag him asunder, Bellamy had allowed himself such thoughts, sacrilegious as they were. But he was frayed and rattled, plagued with fear for his sister's safety, and there had been a soft, supple body pressed up against his, a fair head resting trustingly upon his breast. Who could blame him for taking solace in that?

Nonetheless, an incident like last night's ought not to be repeated. And so Bellamy shrugged out of his coat as soon as they made their first stop and all but swaddled Lady Clarke in it, insisting that he had no need of it. The coat would keep her warm, and although he laid his arm around her shoulders to ease her discomfort during the last stretch of their journey, that was all the contact he allowed himself. Through the layered capes of the coat, there was no risk of feeling her as he had last night, her body pressed so close he could discern even where the stiff sheath of her stays ended and her full breasts were contained only by muslin and silk....But he would forget having ever learned such things about her.

After all, had he not all too recently seen the damaging effects of dishonourable male behaviour? Was he not on his way to save his own sister from those same effects? He would not face Mister Lincoln and call him a cad when his own morals were scarcely better.

Lady Clarke seemed to appreciate the barrier between them - she nestled comfortably into the folds of the coat and  burrowed her face in its collar with a little sigh, no doubt glad of the protection it offered. 

Bellamy need not have worried about letting his thoughts of Lady Clarke stray too far: By the time their carriage approached the border, his head was altogether filled with worried thoughts of his sister once more, and his entire body coiled like a spring with nervous tension. Eventually,  even the lady next to him must have noticed, for she turned, slipped out from under his arm, and took his hand in hers to squeeze it reassuringly.

If her unexpected gesture had surprised him, it was nothing compared to the effect of her next words, and the confidence with which they were uttered.

"We shall find Octavia, and quite unharmed. We must trust to your sister's common sense, and to Mister Lincoln's honour."

"Honour and common sense?" Bellamy could not help but sneer, unappeased. "Those seem to be the exact qualities lacking in this situation."

"But we do not know what the exact situation is. Not yet. Have faith, my Lord."

He laughed disdainfully. "I cannot seem to find it in me to have faith in either of the two in this moment."

"Then I shall have faith for the both of us."

As was so often the case, her words stunned him into silence - her earnest optimism and seemingly boundless determination to see the best in everyone. It was much more than he felt himself capable of right now, but perhaps she was right: Perhaps where he was unable to expect any sort of reasonable or honourable behaviour from his sister and her seducer, Lady Clarke would be able to do so. And perhaps it would be enough to give him just a little bit of hope.

It was this small sliver of hope that he clung to now, turning his hand under hers to cradle it in his palm. The contact calmed him enough to stop the nervous twitch in his legs, and Lady Clarke, perhaps reassured by the barrier of her silk gloves between them, let her hand remain in place.

***

 

Clarke began the second day of their mad chase scared and confused and angry at herself. No, that was not the whole truth. For a few blissful, dazed moments between sleeping and waking, she had felt warm and safe and... perfect.

Then she had remembered where she was and what she had done last night, what she had asked _Lord Blake_ to do, and dread and shame flooded her. She had seen Lord Blake stay by her side in the face of her outrageous and immoral behaviour before, yes, but how many more times could he see proof of her moral corruption and not decide that she was a bad influence on his sister? And if he did, she was afraid it would somehow cause her much more pain than anyone else's disapproval, simply because she knew what his approval looked like, and what it felt like to have those dark eyes gazing upon her with respect and admiration. The thought was unbearable, and yet the risk of losing Lord Blake's approval just as they had established a tentative friendship seemed increasingly real to Clarke as they travelled in silence, regret over her lack of self-restraint weighing ever more heavily on her, quickly followed by guilt about thinking of such trivial things at all when her mind should be on Octavia and their mission to retrieve her.

And then, with just a small gesture, her companion disposed of all her irrational fears. When she noticed the worried tension in his body, tangible even through the thick layers of clothing between them, Clarke knew she could not prize her modesty above her friend's peace of mind. Before she knew what she was doing, she had placed her hand on his in order to offer some comfort... and Lord Blake had accepted the offer, and not let go of her hand since.

Instead of rejecting her for her lack of propriety, he silently embraced her friendship and her offer of support - just as friends and equals should accept and lean on each other.

To have a gentleman rely on her for strength when everything around her strove to convince her of the inferiority of her own sex was a stupendous experience - and one that made Clarke all the more determined to help see this chapter in the Blakes' lives to a good end.

Unfortunately, when they reached Greta Green, that goal soon seemed altogether impossible to achieve.

From whispered tales of improper but oh-so-romantic elopements, Clarke knew where to search for the elusive couple: at the village smithy, where an enterprising blacksmith performed weddings "over the anvil" in front of bought witnesses. It was the first such place across the border, and the one a couple in hot pursuit would seek out.

Lord Blake's attempt to keep her out of sight at an inn was easily diverted, and soon they burst through the doors to the smithy to find what they were looking for - at least, one of the persons they had been looking for.

Mister Lincoln was sat near the door, in a pose that suggested he had waited there for quite some time, and immediately stood up to greet them as he laid eyes on the dishevelled travellers.

But the man never managed to utter any kind of greeting: The moment Lord Blake spotted his sister's presumed husband, he launched himself at Mister Lincoln with a sound Clarke could only describe as a feral roar, stopping short a mere hair's breadth from his face to snarl:

“Where is my sister?”

“She remains at my aunt's house in the Lake District while I have taken lodgings in town. No one has seen us alone together or heard of her intentions to elope. Your sister's reputation is perfectly safe. But I still have every intention of marrying her.”

“The hell you will!” Lord Blake raised his hand, drawing it back for a punch, and Clarke only just managed to catch his arm mid-air, hanging on it with all her strength.

“Enough! This will not solve anything.”

For several long moments, Lord Blake hesitated, remaining poised for a fight, and Clarke shivered at feeling the strength of his anger in the corded muscle under her hands. But she also felt it when he eased up, slowly, until he eventually lowered his hand and Clarke's arms fell back to her sides uselessly.

“Well then, let us solve this like gentlemen.” With that bitter exclamation, Lord Blake tugged at his purse strings and started pulling out guineas by the handful. “How much?”

“Excuse me?”

“How much will it cost me for you to get out of my sister's life never to be heard from again?”

Mister Lincoln drew back as if he had actually received the blow he had been threatened with, and Clarke felt sickened at his expression – at this whole situation, really. There must be a misunderstanding somewhere, there simply must, and Mister Lincoln's genuinely affronted expression gave her hope that there was.

“I will not be bought off. I love your sister, and the only reason I will ever turn my back on her is if she tells me to.”

By now, every single person in the cramped blacksmith's shop was watching the exchange, and Clarke was afraid that the longer they drew their attention, the more likely it became that someone recognized them, or heard their names, and then the secret would be out and Octavia properly ruined. For now at least it looked like that fate could still be averted.

“Perhaps we should discuss this with all concerned parties present.”

Lord Blake's eyes flickered in her direction for a brief moment before settling on Mister Lincoln again. From the rage still flickering in his dark eyes, it was clear that a part of him was still itching to find a physical release for his anger. But it seemed the wish to see his sister won out, and slowly, he nodded.

"Very well then. Bring us to your aunt."

He stormed off, presumably to procure a vehicle that would transport them to Mister Lincoln's aunt, and Clarke and Mister Lincoln followed.

"I hate to see you tangled up in this affair, my Lady."

Mister Lincoln sounded genuinely distraught, and it filled Clarke with relief - a relief only heightened by his next words.

"I never wished for any of this to happen. Octavia and I talked of marriage, yes, but I had intended to formally ask for her hand. But a recent proposal spooked her, and suddenly she was at my door alone one evening, asking me to elope. She was adamant."

"If she was so set on an elopement, how did you convince her to go to your aunt's house instead?"

"I told her we would go to Greta Green and made the driver change course later on."

"Could you not have dissuaded her before ever leaving town together?"

There she had him, Clarke could see from Mister Lincoln's embarrassed expression.

"Perhaps I could have. Perhaps she would have made a scene in the street. I love Octavia deeply, but she is too impulsive for her own good." Clarke looked at him, still waiting for an explanation as to why the elopement had not been prevented. And, raising his head defiantly, Mister Lincoln gave it: "But more importantly, I did not want to. Octavia was afraid her brother would forbid the union, and I could not accept that, whether out of love for her or simply out of my own pride I know not. But I do know that there is nothing wrong with our union, nothing to forbid about it."

"And yet you did not get married."

"Because I could tell Octavia was unhappy about going behind her brother's back. She was quite distraught by the prospect of getting married without his approval."

"So you are forcing him to give it?"

Mister Lincoln looked abashed, but there was a hint of mischief in his eyes when he said:

"Society forces us to play by its rules, and they are not in our favour. Sometimes that means we must bend those rules a little." He quickly turned serious again. "As much as I regret seeing you dragged here, I wonder if perhaps your presence may not turn out to be a blessing. You seem to have Lord Blake's ear. Could you not plead our case with him?"

Clarke considered the request. She was still angry at the lovers for forcing their hand like this, for acting with so little regard for anyone else's feelings. And she had seen the pain it had caused Lord Blake, the worry and, she assumed, a sense of betrayal at his sister's refusal to confide in him.

But she also saw the earnest guilt in Mister Lincoln's expression, heard the way his voice softened when he said Octavia's name. And he was right: society's rules were not in their favour, not in Octavia's and especially not in his. Despite being as kind, accomplished and genteel as any peer, Mister Lincoln had spent his life being overlooked or outright snubbed by many of the ton, and exploited or only grudgingly accepted by many more. If anyone deserved happiness, it was him.

"I will not attempt to persuade Lord Blake against his own conscience. But I will tell him what you told me, and let him make his decision."

Mister Lincoln inclined his head in gratitude. "Thank you, with all my heart. You are a true friend, and I hope your involvement will not be to your detriment."

So did she, but Clarke quickly pushed the thought away. She was here for Octavia - there would be time to worry about her own reputation later.

"He may not be as contrary to your cause as you fear. Lord Blake may be strict where his sister is concerned, but he is not without feeling."

Mister Lincoln seemed surprised at her words, or perhaps at the softness and confidence with which they had been spoken, but he did not voice his thoughts, falling quiet instead as they waited.

Lord Blake's face when he returned with news of having found them a coach seemed to contradict her words: his eyes were still all fire, his voice all thunder when he ushered them into the vehicle, and his countenance during the trip so hostile Clarke did not even attempt to make conversation. 

She could only hope finding his sister safe and sound would make him more inclined to listen to Mister Lincoln, or she feared for the happiness of everyone involved. 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'm taking off for the weekend (Bodensee bitches!), so here's another short one that features very little Bellarke but some very important Blake sibling talk.  
> A note on word use: "hysterical" in this time was not used to mean "funny", it meant something more like "overly emotional".

Thankfully, the trip to Mister Lincoln's aunt was short enough to be completed that same day, and the aunt in question, though far from genial, welcomed the late visitors with polite restraint. A severe-looking, imposing Frenchwoman by the name of Madame Indra, the lady made it clear by her stern expression that she far from approved of the situation, which immediately endeared her to Bellamy.

Even more importantly, she wasted no time before leading them into a drawing-room to find Octavia, well and happy and clearly having been cared for.

Whatever reproaches were on Bellamy's  tongue upon seeing his runaway sister, Octavia disarmed them all by flinging herself at him, all but burying whatever he could say under a veritable flood of apologies and explanations, most of which were barely coherent. Nonetheless, it softened his heart to see her contrite and eager to reconcile, and he decided to at least listen to the deviant couple.

He soon found, however, that he was yearning to speak to his sister alone, to hear her true thoughts on her husband without having him present. Clearly, his impatience must have been obvious, for Lady Clarke suggested to Mister Lincoln they leave the siblings alone to speak for a moment, and although neither of the two lovebirds seemed enthusiastic about the suggestion, a series of warning glances from Lady Clarke made them reluctantly agree.

On the way here, Bellamy had had ample time to plan what he was going to say to his sister when he faced her. How he would demand that she explain herself, and impress upon her the inconvenience she had caused him and Lady Clarke. He had been angry at her, still was. But be had also simply been worried for her safety, and now that he found her well, he found that much of his anger had been fuelled by that same fear, and was already starting to evaporate.

Like any skilled predator, his sister must have sensed this weakening of his resolve, and by the time the door clicked shut behind Lady Clarke and Mister Lincoln, she was quite recovered from being even the slightest bit contrite or apologetic.

"Just so you know, you have nothing to accuse Mister Lincoln of. He acted like a perfect gentleman the entire way here." She sounded rather disappointed about that, Bellamy thought grumpily. "We were never even alone except in the carriage, and one can hardly be compromised in a carriage."

Bellamy promptly managed to choke on thin air, knowing full well just how close to being compromised one could come in a carriage.

He forced himself to take deep breaths, to focus on the matter at hand instead of the matter of what his hands had recently done in a carriage, and, most importantly, he forced himself not to imagine any of the things that may or may not have happened which Octavia would perhaps not consider all that compromising.

By the time his breathing was unhindered once more, Bellamy found that he was much calmer now that his sister was before him, and his frantic fear seemed hysterical and overblown in hindsight. And perhaps so was his anger? Even if Octavia had been compromised by more than a few stolen hours alone in a carriage with a man, would he find it in himself to punish her for it? After all his talk to Lady Clarke about women being more than their virtue, Bellamy supposed it would be rather hypocritical of him to apply different standards to his sister. And of course he knew that Octavia was smart and empathetic and beautiful no matter what she got up to when unsupervised.

But although the kind of gossip people would spread about her may not change anything about her value as a person, he feared it might still hurt her.

And even if, by some stroke of luck or some of Lady Clarke's magic, they managed to keep the whole affair a secret and get Octavia properly wed, the decision would have consequences.

With a heavy sigh, Bellamy sat down in the chair next to Octavia's, forgoing these concerns for the moment in favour of asking a question that had plagued him the entire way here:

“But how can it be that neither of us had any inclination of what was going on with you and Mister Lincoln?”

Octavia let out a laugh, the loud, sharp kind Lady Clarke had worked so hard to train out of her. “The two of you would not have noticed me eloping with the pianoforte; you were so distracted by each other.”

Bellamy huffed and readied himself for a wordy defense, perhaps hoping to distract his shrewd sister from the blush he could feel heating his cheeks. But Octavia cut off his imminent protest with an impatient wave.

“Yes, yes, I know, you have never felt more than friendship and respect for Clarke, just like everyone else who knows her must respect her.... " she rolled her eyes, then fixed them on him with a devious glint. “But if you give me leave to marry Mister Lincoln, I promise not to tell her of your true feelings.”

“Extortion? I did not teach you that, and I doubt the nuns did either.”

“Perhaps I taught myself, since it seems to be the only way I can get anyone to respect my wishes around here. And just in case you had forgotten what they are, they are very easy to remember: I wish to marry Mister Lincoln, and I wish for you to give us your blessing.” Her voice and expression softened and she took his hand. “You are the only family I have, Bellamy. I would hate to be married without you by my side.”

As always, Octavia's honest affection threatened to altogether cancel his resistance. “I do not wish to miss such an important event in your life either. But you must understand – even with the marriage portion I've secured to you, Mister Lincoln will not be able to grant you the kind of lifestyle you have become accustomed to.”

“And I will not mind. I have been used to a far different lifestyle for most of my life, as have you. We have lived on much less, and have we not been happy anyway? Money can only give happiness where there is nothing else to give it.”

“And does Mister Lincoln agree with you on that point?“

Octavia's face hardened.

“You mean does he only want to marry me for my dowry? If he does, he is the best actor I have ever seen.”

“But you admit that there is a chance? Your marriage portion is a pretty sum by any standard. Not to mention as your husband, he may have access to circles he is currently banned from.”

“Or I may be banned from them as well. Come now, Bellamy, you have lived among those people too. Does it not seem just as likely they will shun me as welcome him? This is the same stock of people who abandoned us when your grandfather married a woman they disagreed with, the same kinds of people I have heard giggle about your “exotic” and “thrilling” appearance. I would much rather be with the man I love and be shunned by society than the other way around.”

Bellamy was stunned. Not by her determination to go through with her plans - that he had expected - but by how clearly she had taken stock of her situation, and how calmly and maturely she had delivered the results of her examination. It was not an impudent child sitting before him, nor a flighty, overly romantic young girl. At some point, Octavia had grown into a woman who had chosen her path in life and would stick to it, come hell or high water.

"You are quite decided then?"

"You may know more of the world than I do, dear brother. But I know my own heart."

A sudden lump in his throat delayed his reply, but when he finally managed to choke out the words, Octavia's smile was everything he needed to know he had made the right decision:

"Very well then. It seems you may call yourself a bride soon."

Octavia's answering shriek was ear-piercing.

***

 

By the time Clarke and Mister Lincoln joined the siblings once more, the two had already devised a plan to get Octavia quietly back to London.

Mister Lincoln would head straight to Bath, where he would visit as many of his friends as possible and make sure they believed he had been in that very city for some time.

Lord Blake, Octavia and Clarke, meanwhile, would head back to London at a leisurely pace, take a quick detour to Arrow House but stay only long enough to be able to say they had been there.

With the decision made and everyone reconciled, Mister Lincoln's aunt very emphatically sent them all to bed, retusing to let them even entertain the notion of continuing their trip at night, and Clarke was secretly glad. After two nights in a carriage, it was a delight to rest her head on a soft bed.

Nonetheless, she could not help but compare it to the place her head had rested last night - and find it lacking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a 100% chance I resolved this confict too easily, but I'm so sad about the state of the Blakes' relationship. I can't make them hate each other, and this is my AU, so I'll do what I want.  
> Why is Indra French? For the sole reason that it seems to work better with the name. Carry on.


	17. Chapter 17

In accordance with Lady Clarke's plan, they were soon on their way south again. Octavia and Mister Lincoln took their leave of each other with words of farewell more suited to a long separation rather than a couple who would meet again in just a few days, and Bellamy's irritation was only soothed by the obvious joy of everyone around. Even the immovable Madame Indra offered the hint of a smile at the young lovers' antics.

Before their departure Madame Indra equipped them with a few basic necessities and quantities of food suitable for a much longer trip than the one they were planning, and they were back to travelling. Bellamy was speedily getting sick of carriages, he found. He had lived mostly upon a moving vessel for a decade, but it did not compare to the discomfort and irritation of a bumpy carriage ride. At least with Octavia safely recovered, they could travel at a more leisurely pace and take more breaks, and when the sun came out for what must have been the first time in days, Bellamy could almost convince himself they were travelling for pleasure.

Lady Clarke and Octavia were certainly enjoying themselves, urging him to take ever longer breaks so they could walk around and explore the bountiful nature. And while Bellamy wanted nothing more than to see his sister in London, the banns read and the wedding over with, he could not but let himself be swayed by the smiles and the prettily delivered pleas for "just a half hour more".

The leisurely pace of their journey back did have one advantage: Octavia and he had occasion to talk at length, of the things they had trouble adjusting to in their new lives and the fears and assumptions that had led to Octavia's rash actions. Talking, it seemed, was something they had sorely neglected since being reunited in London at the beginning of the season. And it was this lack of communication that had led to their current situation, Octavia explained when Lady Clarke fell behind to make a few sketches of the surrounding landscape, in a sketch book Bellamy had bought on impulse during their last stop at a small town.

Octavia, it seemed, had taken his fervour in introducing her into London society as an urgent plan to see her married by the end of the season. Having already denied one perfectly respectable offer, his sister had feared that she would be pressured to accept the next one, and had decided to take matters into her own hands.

"I would never force you to marry anyone you did not wish to marry." The assumption stung, and Bellamy's defense was adequately fierce. Far from being intimidated, however, Octavia only smiled wistfully.

"Perhaps not. But you might have forbid me from marrying someone you suspected of being an unfortunate match."

Bellamy remained stubbornly silent, not sure if a denial of the allegation would be the whole truth. He had seen up close the impact of a poorly chosen husband. If he had suspected Mister Lincoln to be such an inadequate husband, he may indeed have tried to prevent the union.

"But did you not trust me to see that your intended was not such a match, and to find it in me to give my blessing? Do you trust me so little?"

"I do trust you, Bellamy. I trust you to have my best interests at heart. But I was afraid that, in the pursuit of these best interests, you would go above and beyond, and harden your heart against anything you perceived as a threat to my happiness."

Bellamy fell silent once more, pondering her words. Perhaps there was a shred of truth to them. And perhaps the episode would show them the importance of trusting and confiding in each other.

Octavia's thoughts seemed to have gone in a similar direction: "It seems we have much to learn yet, and much growing ahead of us until we're a family united once more. But you have shown that you are willing to respect my decision - I in turn will try and have more faith that you will do the same in the future, and promise to never keep anything from you."

The words were perhaps delivered with an air of generosity that made them feel like a rather insincere apology, but Bellamy knew they were meant from the bottom of Octavia's heart, and he could not but trust in her determination to stick to them. A part of him nonetheless hoped that there would be no more decisions in the near future that would require his acquiescence - he had had quite enough of Octavia's decisions for a while now.

Nonetheless, it felt good to have cleared the air between them, and Bellamy could allow himself to enjoy the pleasures of the trip along with his companions.

Although, he could not help but notice, one of said companions seemed intent to linger not so much out of interest in their current destination, but rather to avoid reaching their intended one. For whenever he caved and allowed another stop, there was an unmistakable look of relief on Lady Clarke's face. It may have been her plan to divert their party to her family home, but she was far from eager to actually arrive at Arrow House, no doubt out of fear of her mother's reaction. Bellamy, on the other hand, grew more and more curious about the Countess of Arkton with every passing hour. After all, she was one of the people who must have shaped Lady Clarke in her early years and turned her into the fascinating creature she was today.

For though Lady Clarke was very much her father's daughter in her looks, in temperament the two were as different as any two people could be. Her character, therefore, must have been passed on through the maternal line, and Bellamy was curious to see if his speculation was right.

He soon found that it was: upon their arrival, Lady Griffin, though slim and dark where her daughter was fair and lush, reminded him of no one so much as of Lady Clarke on their very first meeting: Cool, correct, and very much displeased. If Madame Indra's welcome had been less than warm, Lady Griffin's was positively icy, and managed to overshadow even the splendid beauty of the house and gardens.

***

 

In hindsight, Clarke ought not to have expected her mother to approve of her impulsive actions. And in the Countess's defense, she did greet their guests with all required politeness, readying food and rooms and offering them free use of the gardens and library.

But as soon as the first preliminary chitchat was done with, her mother revealed her true feelings on the visit. Their guests having taken up the offer of a stroll through the gardens, they set out through the ornamental maze at a leisurely pace, and as soon as the siblings walked a few paces ahead and out of earshot, her mother turned to Clarke with a reproachful expression.

“Gretna Green? Alone, with an unmarried gentleman? What were you thinking, Clarke?”

“I... there was hardly time to think. I merely wanted to help.”

Her mother's lips tightened into a thin line. “You know your father and I do not believe in this society's insistence on constricting and controlling a young lady's every move. We have certainly left you a great many freedoms, and have been disappointed before. I would hate to see the same thing happening again.”

Clarke loved her mother dearly, but ever so often during those kinds of conversations, she felt pressured to defend herself for things that, in her opinion, did not need defending – things like helping a friend, for example.

“He... _they_ needed me!”

Her mother's features softened, but the worry in them remained.

“And what of what you need, Clarke – a husband, family, secure future? Will helping your friends be worth giving up all those things?”

Clarke fell silent, watching as ahead of them, the Blake siblings emerged from between the rows of hedges, taking in the view of the sweeping natural gardens before them with exclamations of awe and delight. She knew what she should say, what she should feel – that nothing and no one was worth losing sight of her future. But she also remembered Octavia laughing with her, remembered Lord Blake's distraught look when he heard the news of his sister's elopement. What good was a secure future when it was bought at the expense of others; of people she held dear?

“But perhaps you have already started making plans towards that end?”

Her mother's voice tore her out of her musings. Apparently, the Countess had used her daughter's silence for her own ruminations, and had come to some conclusions. The exact meaning of her words, however, only became apparent to Clarke when her mother followed her gaze to the pair ahead of them, pointedly fixing her eyes on Lord Blake's figure.

“No! Nothing of the sort has been said by either him or me.”

It was the truth, and Clarke resolutely clung to that and ignored the little jolt that had gone through her at the suggestion.

“And what of the things that have not been said?”

"No such things have ever taken place."

It was not an outright _lie_ , Clarke told herself. But it was also not the whole truth either. Sure, Lord Blake's behaviour in the carriage had been as honourable as one could behave under the circumstances, which Clarke could easily explain as a sign of indifference towards her. But there were other moments to disprove that theory: small touches that lingered where they should not have, glances that felt like they bore straight through her skin and to her very core. There was the fact that everything Lord Blake did or said to her seemed to be equipped with a certain fire - but then, perhaps a man as passionate as him could not help but set everything around him afire.

And then, even if those things meant what her mother was implying, such intentions need not necessarily end in marriage, as she knew from experience.

“Mind, I am not saying you _should_ marry him. Marquess or not, he was not raised to live the way he does now, and no doubt knows little of our values. His allowing you to come to Gretna certainly proves that.“

“He did not _allow_ me anything, mother. I hardly gave him a choice but to let me come.“

“He nonetheless put you in a position where you felt the need to accompany him in the first place.“

“I felt the need to accompany him because I felt responsible for Octavia's well-being. She was placed under my tutelage, and I failed to support her when it came to making a difficult decision. The only way Lord Blake could have prevented that would have been by forbidding my presence in his sister's life altogether.“

“And perhaps that would have been for the best.“

Clarke almost stopped in her tracks, overwhelmed with anger at her mother's unusual narrow-mindedness and a sudden hollow clenching in her stomach at the thought of having never met the Blakes. What would her second Season have been like then? Much more dreary, she suspected, and she no doubt would have tried to hide out in her room until her mother would have come down to London to drag her out and throw her at the nearest suitable bachelor.

No, Clarke thought, not meeting the Blakes would have made her life poorer despite everything her family still owned.

***

 

Their stay at Arrow House was brief, and offered few occasions to get to know the Countess. Neither, as far as Bellamy could tell, did Lady Griffin and Lady Clarke seem to use their time at Arrow House to catch up, to speak in confidentiality as a mother and daughter who had not seen each other in a while. He was fairly sure he knew why, of course – Lady Griffin did clearly not approve of any of their recent actions, and neither, he assumed, did she approve of the Blakes' presence in her daughter's life. She remained coolly civil towards Belamy in particular, and when forced to interact with him, her questions about his upbringing and navy career were no doubt owed less to any interest in his person and more to an attempt to test his worth as a peer.

When, after only two days, Lady Clarke suggested they continue on to London, he was more than ready to agree, uncomfortable carriage-ride be damned.

The last leg of their voyage was a short one, lengthened only by one last stop to take a walk. This time, Bellamy welcomed it – after Lady Griffin's stifling disapproval, Bellamy felt he could breathe again for the first time in days when they set out to walk up a soft, sloping hill. But the walk also gave him time to brood, and Bellamy found there was much to brood about indeed.

He had always known that not everyone would be so welcoming as Lord Griffin and Lady Kane, so willing to forget his upbringing and overlook the many gaps in his education. And there was no doubt that Lady Griffin's disapproval of him was fuelled mostly by the fact that he had allowed her daughter to accompany him on a trip that could well cost her her reputation – although why Lady Griffin imagined he was in any way able to allow or forbid her daughter anything was a mystery to him. Nonetheless, he could have accepted her disapproval of the choices that had brought them to Arrow House. What he had trouble accepting was her clear disapproval of his entire person, and yet it took all his strength not to let it convince himself that she was right, that he was somehow _less_ than her or her daughter for being born in the wrong kind of house.

When, after their walk, his thoughts still circled around the issue, his mind still echoed with exclamations of _“Not good enough!“_ , Bellamy made use of a lull in the conversation and Octavia drifting off to sleep to discuss their stay at Arrow House with Lady Clarke.

"I take it your mother was not pleased to hear of our little adventure."

Lady Clarke smiled wrily.

"She was not." Then, with a hint of bitterness: "She suddenly cares much more for my reputation than her past behaviour might suggest."

The moment the words were out, she clapped a hand over her mouth, as if to trap the long-escaped words there.

"I did not mean…you must not think ill of my mother, please. If anything, think ill of me for speaking about her in such a manner."

Bellamy was not doing any such thing. But he was, suddenly, tempted to think ill of himself. Here he was, wallowing in self-pity and childish anger at the disapproval of a woman who meant nothing to him, when her own daughter had been judged just as harshly, and had much more reason to feel hurt.

"I'll not think ill of either of you.“ It was not entirely true, but he would not let his own anger drive a wedge between a mother and daughter. Instead, he tried to placate the daughter in question. “Your mother is right to worry about you. But you are just as much in the right for disagreeing with her. I loved my mother dearly, and yet I could not agree with all of her decisions."

Lady Clarke studied him intently.

"If I may ask, what were those decisions?"

From anyone else, he would refuse to answer the question, and consider it unduly intimate. Her earnestly inquiring expression and soft voice, however, made it impossible not to answer.

"The decision to choose a worthless drunkard for her second husband, who gambled away the money my father left us instead of setting it aside for his daughter's future."

Lady Clarke looked shocked, but he knew by now that she was not judging him for his upbringing but feeling for him instead. But he had set out on this course of conversation to get to the bottom of the rift between her and her mother, not to divulge his own tales of woe.

"But that does not mean that I do not love my mother. She taught me a great many things: She laid the seed for my love of history and mythology, and she taught me to sew - a skill which earned me a pretty penny during my time with the navy. But she also placed a great deal of responsibility on my shoulders after Octavia's father died. And so, I am sure, your mother too has equipped you with gifts and burdens in equal measure."

It was an invitation he extended: to lay whatever troubled her down at his feet and see if he could not help her carry it. And the invitation was accepted.

"My mother is a very learned woman, and has been studying anatomy, botany, surgery and a variety of other subjects that may be applied to the treatment of human ailments and injuries for years now. She has taught me a lot about those same subjects, inspired the same passion for them within me. Unfortunately, she failed to inform me that it would be a passion I would only ever have to hide, and one that must always be second to the purpose life has seen fit to assign my sex: that of being a wife and mother. My mother manages to be both a wife and a scholar. But she has my father for a husband, who is the most patient and understanding of men, and who would never try and forbid anyone's academic pursuits or stifle their independence, regardless of their station in life. I am not confident of finding someone like that as my husband, and yet my mother insists that a husband needs finding - though not urgently enough, it seems, to warrant pausing her scientific work to join us in London and complete the picture of respectability."

Again the hint of bitterness, which Bellamy now considered more than justified. He knew not where to direct his anger: at a mother who had equipped her daughter with a very useful set of skills only to thrust her into a situation where none of those skills were needed, or a society that taught a young woman to hide life-saving knowledge in favour of a pretty façade.

And what kind of man would marry a woman like her and then forbid her pursuit of her interests? Who would want a woman who so excelled at taking charge, only to take away her independence? Even after weeks in London, the rules and ideals surrounding marriages still baffled Bellamy. At least he knew by now what kind of man would pursue someone like Lady Griffin without a shred of interest in her character: the kind of man to whom money, title and reputation was valued above all, and to whom the kind of beauty and wit Lady Clarke sparkled with was no more than an added bonus. She deserved better, he thought, and was suddenly glad Octavia had made her own choice in a husband, even if she had forced his hand in the process.

He revealed none of these thoughts, however, and opted for more innocuous words of comfort.

"Your family are perfectly respectable, and no less admirable for being perhaps a little unusual."

"Thank you. If only everyone thought like you - the Season would be less of a chore perhaps."

She smiled gratefully, and something tightened inside him, warm and almost painful and enough to make his chest feel like it ought to burst. The sensation was soon followed by an idea, inspired by their conversation and supported by all the little things he had discovered about her. Feeling bold and terrified and bursting with life all at the same time, Bellamy leaned forward to take her hand and alter the course of their lives forever – only to dislodge Octavia's sleeping form where it was propped against him.

Octavia promptly woke up, and the words he had been about to say dissolved on his tongue, leaving no trace behind but a puzzled look from Lady Clarke.

There were no more opportunities to speak alone, and soon they reached London. Lady Clarke descended at her house and Bellamy and Octavia drove on to theirs to return to their lives as if nothing out of the ordinary had ever occurred - or so Bellamy thought.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't do much writing this week because I'm on holiday in the prettiest place on earth, but I did get a little bit done. Meeting Abby went exactly as well as expected. But it made feminist!Bellamy make an appearance again, so yay!  
> 100 bonus points for anyone who can guess what he was about to say at the end of the chapter? (Okay, it's probably not hard to guess at all.)  
> I'm having a few problems with Abby, and I'm afraid I made her too much of a snob. But she's only worried about her daughter.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having survived the mountain pass from hell, I now give you what may be one of my favourite chapters in this entire story.

Clarke entered her house in a dress that was rumpled beyond help and driven only by the strong desire to sleep for a very long time in her own soft bed.

Instead, she was led into the parlour and greeted there by a small, unexpected welcoming committee: not only had her father apparently been waiting for her return, but he had been kept company by Lady Kane. Ensconced on a sofa, surrounded by empty tea cups and a half-eaten tray of lemon biscuits, the old Lady somehow succeeded in looking comfortable and tormented at the same time. The second she laid eyes on Clarke, the Duchess sprang to her feet, overtaking even her father in her haste to get to the weary traveller.

“Clarke! Oh, you poor dear! I came as soon as I heard, of course... All of London is talking about it!"

Behind Lady Kane, Clarke's father twitched his shoulders as if to suggest that he cared not what all of London thought. But the pallour, the distraught tension of his expression said otherwise.

“I have trouble believing it myself, and yet everyone was so convinced...”

There was real pain in her father's voice, real concern on Lady Kane's face, and dread slowly rose within Clarke as she imagined the terrible things that could have befallen their family.

“Your Grace, Papa, I must admit I do not understand – what ever happened while I was away?”

She had an inkling, of course, but too much was still uncertain, and Clarke resolved to stay calm until she knew the full extent of the damage. And damage there must be, for her father to be this worried – they had sent two urgent messengers to inform him of the situation; one as soon as they had reunited with Octavia, the other upon their arrival at Arrow House. Her father should know that she had been safe and sound the entire time, and Octavia recovered with no damage to her reputation several days hence.

Lady Kane's eyes widened in understanding, while her father's narrowed with suspicion. Was he suspecting that her ignorance was a feint?

“Oh, you poor thing really do know nothing! You'd best sit down then, it is positively shocking!” The lady waited for Clarke to follow her instruction, then continued. “The whole town is abuzz with it... rumour has it that you have been seen taking a coach to Gretna Green with a young gentleman, alone, and did not return for _several_ days!”

Lady Kane took a few heaving breaths before she turned stern eyes on Clarke.

“Now, surely there is a very good explanation for such a rumour? An innocent mistake that led to its being spread falsely? Sadly, your father seems to have not been informed about the matter at all.”

She levelled a stern glare at Lord Griffin, who had apparently attempted to feign ignorance about the whole situation. Clarke did not see her father's reaction. Nausea swept over her, and Clarke was glad for Lady Kane's advice to sit down. She had known damage to her own reputation was a possible outcome of their little adventure. She had simply refused to believe it would come to it.

Clarke forced herself to take deep, even breaths - it would not do to go into hysterics now. But despite her resolution, Clarke could not bring herself to raise her eyes and look at her father – too scared was she to see him angry and disappointed.

“There is a good explanation, but the bare facts are correct. I did take a trip to Gretna Green, but it was not I who eloped. I went to help a friend, with the most honourable companion imaginable.”

Lady Kane sat down next to Clarke with a deep sigh.

“It is true then.” 

Clarke nodded slowly, unsure of how much she should reveal. Clearly, her father had not informed their friend of the true reason for her absence. Should she do so now? But it seemed Lady Kane knew much more than Clarke had expected her to. 

“Octavia finally ran off with her dancing teacher.”

Clarke turned fully towards her older companion to stare at her, but Lady Kane only shrugged.

“I may be old, but my eyes are still as sharp as ever. It was difficult not to notice how much Octavia enjoyed her lessons.”

“And you said nothing? Did nothing to prevent it?” Clarke could not hide her astonishment.

“Why would I? Mister Lincoln is a man of integrity, and young Octavia a lady of means. There is nothing to be said against their union. Were she poor, or he a cad, I would have intervened a long time ago.”

“There is nothing to be said against the union itself. But they kept it secret from everyone, including her own brother, and had him chase after them in frantic fear.”

This little outburst, rather than offending Lady Kane, had the most peculiar effect: the Duchess smiled.

“I see I need not ask what drove you to Gretna Green.”

Clarke fell silent abruptly, too distracted by the sudden flash of heat in her cheeks. Why should she react thus? There was no shame in helping a friend.

Placing a hand over Clarke's, Lady Kane and smiled understandingly.

“Your compassion honours you, my dear. I can only hope it is being repaid in kind.” While Clarke was momentarily confused, her father nodded vigorously, and Lady Kane, apparently expecting some kind of answer, asked impatiently: “So what of the gentleman? Is he informed that the secret's out? And has he done the only thing that can be done now?”

Clarke never got around to answering the question, as chaos erupted in the entrance hall at that moment. A loud exchange could be heard, followed by some banging and a bellowed “Clarke!” before Lord Blake burst into the drawing-room, his travelling clothes in the same sorry state as hers and his hair in wild disarray. One of Lady Kane's questions was answered at least.

After barrelling into the room, it took Lord Blake a moment of disoriented silence to realize that there were more people present than he had expected. But he caught himself, bowing stiffly before each of the room's occupants. The colour on his cheekbones matched the heat on Clarke's own.

“Your Grace, Lord Griffin, Lady Clarke...” having finished his salutations, he faltered for a moment, seemingly unsure whom to address. His eyes wandered from her father's stony face to Lady Kane's encouraging smile to Clarke's eyes. Then, as if pulled together by some unseen resolution, he turned towards the Earl.

“Lord Griffin, may I have a word with your daughter?”

“You may.”

Relief crept onto her father's face, softening its worried edges as he voiced his approval – the expression of a man, Clarke thought with detached interest, who had expected a betrayal and been shown loyalty instead. But Lord Griffin's own loyalties were still with Clarke: He looked at her searchingly, as if waiting for some sign of protest. Clarke gave none: Not only did she not object to a private conversation with Lord Blake, she craved one. Lady Kane's news had thrown her mind into such an uproar, she could barely form coherent thoughts. She was in need of a plan, and of a trusted companion to help her form it.

Getting up from her place on the sofa, Lady Kane made for the door, only stopping once near Lord Blake to pat his arm in the same matronly manner that had consoled Clarke before.

“You are perfectly right, my Lord – even if it must be a terribly hushed and hurried affair, a young lady still deserves a proper proposal.”

Clarke heard the words perfectly well, saw Lady Kane's saucy little smile thrown in her direction – and yet she failed to string them together in any kind of coherent manner. Only when the door closed and Lord Blake addressed her did the fog in her head finally start to clear.

“I cannot begin to express how terribly sorry I am for all of this.” Lord Blake studied her intently, but with a certain distracted air. “How are you taking the news?”

“I only just found out. Is it really as bad as Lady Kane says?”

“Apparently it is. I was approached about it on the street before even setting foot inside my house.”

“And people really are saying....?”

“People are apparently saying a great many things.” His fists clenched around the back of a nearby chair, leading Clarke to guess the unflattering nature of many of said remarks. The simple movement served the dual purpose of expressing his anger and curbing it at the same time, and when he spoke again, there was nothing but bold resolve in his voice.

"How do we fix this?"

"We can't."

“Of course we can. We have safely returned my sister to town, we shall put an end to these rumours too.”

“We shan't. There is no force as unstoppable as gossip, and one can only wait until it has run its course. Luckily, this means you will come out of this affair unscathed. As soon as the ton has found some other scandal to delve into, you will be forgiven – men always are.” She could practically taste the bitter truth of her words on her tongue.

“And what about you?”

That was the more difficult part of it.

“I have played with fire and been burned, and rightly so. I am only now reaping the punishment that should have befallen me months ago.” It was, after all, what she had been mentally preparing herself for these past months. 

“But what if... what if you could find a way to view it as less of a punishment?”

“I do not see how being a disgraced woman can be anything less than a punishment.”

“Not a disgraced woman. But perhaps...” a nervous twitch of the hands, eyes that travelled all about the room without ever landing on her spoke of what it cost him to continue: “Perhaps you could make peace with the idea of being a married woman? If we were to have the banns read right now, or to head back to Gretna Green; if the next time you appeared in society it would be as my wife – surely then no one would dare to shun you?”

It was, of course, what everyone would expect of him now: To own up to his part in her downfall and make her an honest woman. The fact that he voiced it like some sort of novel idea rather than the expected thing made her heart ache with fondness.

“I cannot ask that of you.”

“You do not need to ask. I am offering.”

“Then you are offering too much. There is no need for both of us to be punished for my stubbornness.”

“There is no need for _you_ to suffer for helping out in matters that should by rights be no concern of yours. I will not let your help in finding my sister be the cause of your unhappiness.”

“And I will not let your desire to repay my help lead to yours.”

He took a deep breath, then let it out in a frustrated huff, his hands coming up to ruffle already unstraightened hair with unrestrained impatience.

“Will you not at least consider the possibility that this story need not end in disgrace and tragedy?”

Clarke wanted to scoff disparagingly, to take him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. When had such stories ever not ended in disgrace and tragedy, or at the very least in mismatched, regretful marriages?

But she said nothing, because he chose this moment to bring his ungloved hand up to cup her face and the words got stuck on her tongue when he traced her cheekbone with one rough thumb.

“However much you may believe it, making one mistake does not have to keep you from being happy ever again. From being _loved_.”

The words laced the heat of his touch with a sharp hint of painful longing, and _Oh_! how she wanted to believe them, and everything they could mean.

She brought her hand up to his, fully intending to pull it away. But when her fingertips met his warm skin, Clarke found herself unable to complete the movement, and her hand came to rest uselessly upon his wrist.

“Do you not trust me at all by now? Can you not imagine that I mean to do well by you?”

Clarke _could_ imagine it; in fact, she could imagine so many things about him in that moment that words failed her among the roaring thoughts in her head, especially when he stepped closer to rest his forehead against hers.

“I would march up to your father this instant and ask him for your hand if I did not think you'd take offense at not being consulted first. I am serious, Clarke. Marry me.”

“ _Bellamy_...”, she started without knowing what she intended to say. But when his name fell from her lips he must have taken it as her full reply, her _Yes!,_ because he pressed his lips against hers in the gentlest of kisses – and Clarke angled back her head to receive it.

She knew it was wrong, that _she_ was in the wrong by allowing this. She had no doubt that he meant what he had said, no. But he had worked too hard to gain some standing with polite society to throw it all away for her. He could do so much better; could find a wife who was soft-spoken and docile and unmarred by scandal.

But like a child with a stolen candle, illicitly reading before bedtime and telling herself _“just one more page”_ , Clarke remained rooted in place and told herself: _“just one more moment”_ as his lips slid over hers, gently increasing their pressure so as to create a friction that she could feel in every nerve ending in her body.

“ _Just this once,”_ she promised herself as his hand locked around her waist and swept her flush against him.

“ _Just to say goodbye,”_ she pled with her conscience as the tip of his tongue teased at her lips, coaxing them open to deepen the kiss and Clarke obliged, sighing against his mouth when his hand swept from her cheek to her neck to tangle in her loosely pinned-up hair and her own hand found its resting-place on his taut bicep.

She could feel herself starting to tip from _“just this once”_ into _“perhaps forever”_ when he drew back to ask breathlessly: “Is this not worth trying?”

Reality slammed back into her, and Clarke choked down the sob that rose in her throat at the awe in his raspy voice, the hopeful look on his face. She knew she had to set him free, but she was too much of a coward to look at him when she did. So instead of giving him the reply she should give, she said:

“You may speak to my father tomorrow.”

And because she was already well on her way to hurting herself and a little bit more would certainly not kill her, Clarke allowed herself to study him for a moment, taking in his flushed cheeks and plumped lips, his hopeful smile and darkened eyes, and committing them all to memory.

For before nightfall, Clarke was on her way out of the city, fleeing to her mother like a scared child.

Bellamy was simply going to _have_ to understand. She had instructed her father to explain, and though the Earl had protested vehemently against her decision, she had not let herself be swayed by his optimism. This story would not end well as long as she was in it, and so remove herself she would. She was sure her father would have the right words and a stiff drink on hand when he received Lord Blake in the morning, and perhaps the sting would not be as bad as she imagined right now – perhaps he would secretly be relieved, and would soon see that it was for the best. Without the burden of her stained reputation, he could go about his life as usual, and she would soon be forgotten.

These were the things she told herself on the cold, dreary drive to Arrow House. But none of them stopped the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes as she sat in the carriage, feeling like a lonely wretch despite Harper's quiet presence beside her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, Clarke was super mean by leaving. (And I'm sure some of you will have something to say about that in the comments...) But in her defense: a) she means well and b) “Maybe we won't hate being married” is not exactly the most romantic way to propose.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo there were a lot of reactions to the last chapter... and I have to say I'm sorry I left you all dangling like that but let's face it, we ship Bellarke, we're used to waiting. I was very happy that most of you were not angry at Clarke for leaving but understood where she came from. And of course, I'm very, very happy that so many people engage with this story and comment on it. You keep me going!

Clarke stumbled out of the carriage and fell straight into her mother's arms, and though they had not parted on the warmest of terms, the Countess's arms immediately closed tightly around Clarke. For a moment, she could imagine that she was a child again, hurting from nothing worse than a scraped knee.

Then her mother drew back to look at her and inquire what had happened in a tone that suggested she already knew, and Clarke was forced to relive and retell the tale of how she had managed to doom herself to unhappiness and break a good man's heart, all in the span of one short conversation and one even shorter kiss.

“I was afraid something like this would happen. That Lord Blake....“

Clarke shook her head in protest, unable to bear to the thought of anyone speaking ill of her friend when he had acted so honourably – or, at the very least, tried to.

“He proposed. He was going to make it right.“

The admission shocked her mother into silence, but Clarke never managed to explain it, or even to continue the tale – she was overcome with tears, and fled once again into the comfort of her mother's arms. Luckily, the Countess probed no further. A hot bath and a hearty stew were all that waited for Clarke before she was tucked into bed, and there was no more talk of proposals, nor of Lord Blake.

Nonetheless, his image was at the forefront of her mind all evening, keeping her awake long after her mother had pressed a kiss to her forehead and extinguished the candles on her nightstand.

But time would fade and blur the image and heal the wound she had inflicted upon herself. And time would no doubt have a happy helper in Arrow House itself. Its pleasing lines and sprawling gardens, comfortable furniture and lingering familiar smells, not to mention a well-stocked library had helped sooth her heart before, and she had no doubt it would do the same again.

This Clarke firmly believed as she threw herself into catching up with the servants and visiting the tenants, many of whom she had known her entire life, pouncing on the new additions to the library and listening to her mother's explanations on her most recent studies. But each night, as soon as she let her various activities rest, the image she had tried so hard to banish from her mind returned.

Try as she might, Clarke could not forget the man she had left behind so coldly. It had been for the best, she kept telling herself, and yet she could not but remember the way he had looked at her after that kiss, like the future was bright and theirs to take, together.

Remembering that look and imagining what it must have morphed into when he had been informed of her departure were one and the same, and more painful than she could have ever imagined.

For there was one thing Clarke had not anticipated before fleeing town: She missed him, more than she had ever missed anyone. Missed his midday-sun-smile and his no longer hostile teasing, his inquiring mind and refusal to be awed by pomp, money and titles. And most painfully of all, she missed the way he saw her, disarmed her of any pretense or coquetry to face her free from judgement or reserve, to challenge or console her as needed.

She missed other things about him too, dangerous, frivolous, irrational things: his impossible-to-tame curls and the way there always seemed to be something of a brisk ocean gale about him; the warmth of his hands and the way he had of looking at her as though nothing and no one else existed in the world. She imagined herself missing things she had hardly known enough to remember them: the sensation of his hand stretched out across the small of her back and the taste of his lips and the way he had made his demands entirely by offering.

 _Bellamy_ , she had called him in that passionate moment, and though she would never be allowed to use such an intimate address again, Clarke would always treasure the taste of his name on her tongue.

But, she told herself over and over again: it was for the best this way, and one day he would thank her for it.

This she clung to, through evenings when she lay in her bed and bit back tears, through conversations with her mother during which she began to tell a tale of her recent exploits, only to remember it featured him prominently and taper off into silence, the joy of it turning to regret. And she clung to it when a visitor arrived from London with news of the ton (her supposed ruination was still the talk of the town) and an offer that was too good to decline.

With clenched teeth and a bleeding heart, Clarke accepted Lord Wallace's offer of marriage, aware that it would most likely be the last one she'd receive. She made sure to keep Arrow House in her line of sight when she held out her hand for her new fiancé to kiss, so as to remind herself why she was doing this: She had been given a chance to save her beloved home and her own future without ruining anyone else's. Taking that chance was the right, the only thing to do.

And yet, when Lord Wallace departed to London to speak to her father, he left behind a decidedly unhappy bride.

Not for the first time, Clarke wished for a chance to turn back the time, for some mystical being or white knight to appear before her and magick away her sorrows.

But while no such creature appeared on her horizon, this distressed damsel had something even better than a white knight: A concerned mother.

Upon hearing what had transpired between her daughter and Lord Wallace, the Countess of Arkton added the information to an almost-finished letter to her husband and sent it to London by post that very day. She may not be in possession of the full story behind her daughter's current predicament; in fact, due to Clarke's sullen and taciturn manner, she knew but very little. But between Clarke's brief and cryptic reference to Lord Blake, her persistent downcast mien and an elucidating letter from her husband, Lady Abigail Griffin felt sufficiently informed to decide: Enough was enough.

Despite the muddy roads and frequent showers, a diligent messenger delivered the Countess's letter without delay. The footman who took it immediately alerted the butler as to the arrival of a missive from Arrow House. The butler not only dutifully brought it to the Earl's study at his earliest convenience but also suggested the Earl take a break from his studies to find out what news there was of his family.

Everyone did their part, and yet the letter's true recipient almost failed to ever glimpse its contents. For unlike the writing on the envelope suggested, the man Lady Griffin hoped would read the letter, the man she suspected might be best suited to lift her daughter's spirits, if he could be persuaded to try, was someone other than her husband. And that man was currently avoiding the Griffin family's London residence like the plague.

 

***

The jilted Lord Blake had been met with nothing but politeness by the Earl, who had stressed that he did not blame his young friend for his daughter's current predicament and that he wished to continue their friendship. But Bellamy had not been able to bring himself to set foot inside the Griffin residence, the site of his recent humiliation - though perhaps it was not so much his pride that kept him from revisiting the stage of his first proposal of marriage and subsequent rejection. It would be much closer to the truth to say that it was, indeed, his heart which was most gravely wounded.

But unlike any other kind of injury, this one went determinedly unacknowledged. Bellamy had spent the time since his – admittedly perhaps somewhat ungallant – proposal going about his day as usual, fending off his sister's increasingly insistent inquiries into the nature of Lady Clarke's departure and his future plans regarding his new status as a seducer of upstanding ladies, and trying to deny the undeniable fact that he had been deeply wounded, and yet wanted nothing more than to be allowed another word with his attacker.

For that was the crux of it: So deep ran his regard for the lady that not even her cowardly behaviour could make him forsake her altogether. He withstood Octavia's probing for several days, not wishing to drive a wedge between her and her first and truest friend in London, and when his sister eventually did persuade him to give a short account of his last conversation with Lady Clarke and started cursing her friend's name, Bellamy tried to defend her. He succeeded, but only in so far as to convince Octavia that there must have been some sort of misunderstanding.

“Of course she misunderstood – Clarke would never do anything to hurt you, she values you far too highly.” She fixed a stern gaze upon him. “Did you sufficiently impress upon her the depth of your feelings? Tell her that you love her, and have for quite some time?”

Bellamy could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks at the mere thought of it. “I did not see the necessity of making a sentimental spectacle out of my suggestion. I merely offered to be a good husband, and to make sure she would come out of this entire affair with her reputation intact.”

“You offered her a _marriage of convenience_?” Octavia's voice reached a pitch that he could feel stabbing at his eardrums. “Oh Bellamy. No wonder she declined.”

“I hardly think me offering to help her was enough to rule me out as a husband. No, I am quite sure Lady Clarke had reasons enough to reject me.”

Octavia shook her head, half anger, half incredulity. “Your stubbornness first among them, I presume.”

Bellamy remained silent. He could think of a dozen more reasons why someone like Lady Clarke may not wish to marry him. The thought that she of all people would give weight to any of those reasons, however, stung more than he could possibly express.

Octavia was still probing for explanations other than the apparent one – that Lady Clarke could not imagine ever loving someone like him.

“Did it occur to you that perhaps she would have been more than willing to marry you if she thought you were not asking for her hand only out of a sense of duty and guilt?”

But Bellamy could not bear to let himself believe such theories, which would only spark hope where he was sure there was none. He instead guided the conversation over to some business related to Octavia's fast-approaching wedding, and soon there was no more talk of Lady Clarke, at least in their household.

But her name continued to haunt him all over London: in gossip relayed by the servants and Lady Kane, in the looks that seemed to follow him wherever he appeared and that seemed to endlessly waver between fascination and disdain, and in the passing comments from near-strangers at the club, who apparently considered his being called a cad and a libertine an honour, and who congratulated him on evading marriage when there was no other end to the story he had wished for more dearly.

But not only were those reactions grating and offensive, they also gave room to a growing fear inside of Bellamy. Given how convinced everyone was of his role in defiling Lady Clarke, he was beginning to fear that Lord Griffin would start to see things the same way and shun him after all; the very man whose opinion, in all of London, Bellamy valued most highly.

And so it was with a great deal of trepidation that he followed a strongly emphasized invitation to the Griffin residence, where he was led into the Earl's study. To Bellamy's great astonishment, instead of the disapproving dressing-down he had expected, he was handed a letter and instructed to read it almost as soon as he had crossed the threshold.

For one moment he thought the letter was from Lady Clarke (for who else would deliver missives to him via Lord Griffin's hand?) and he knew not if the thought delighted or alarmed him. Would he perhaps finally hear what made him so unsuitable as a husband? Would he learn that the hope that had lately burgeoned within him, hope that perhaps they might be suited to being more than just reluctant friends, was not a hope she could ever see herself sharing? Or would he instead finally receive an explanation of her sudden departure, an apology perhaps? But if that was the case, would he want it?

Before he had time to answer this question for himself, Lord Griffin cleared his throat and Bellamy turned his attention to the letter in his hand. As soon as he unfolded the thick paper, he realized that he was not looking at Lady Clarke's elegant hand, which he had sometimes had opportunity to observe as she sat quietly writing letters while Octavia studied. No, this hand, though somewhat similar, belonged to a different person, and curiosity bade him start reading.

“ _My dear Jake,”_ Bellamy only read the first line before he threw the letter back down on the table. “My Lord, this is your private correspondence.”

“Yes, yes. But it is from my wife, who is a very matter-of-fact woman, so you need not fear any intimate address. In fact, the letter is not concerned with either her or me, but with someone whose well-being I believe us both to have an interest in.”

Bellamy hesitated, but eventually, curiosity, and the fact that he knew very well whom Lord Griffin was referring to, won out. He picked the letter up again and read:

_My dear Jake,_

_I am afraid summer is holding a grudge this year, for there have been hardly more than a handful of sunny days; just constant drizzle. Luckily, the tenants have assured me that their crops have not taken any damage yet. But the weather does nothing to elevate the mood in this house, particularly in the case of those of us who are already dejected. I hate having to bring you such bad news, but none of my efforts so far have caused a change in Clarke's demeanour,..._

Bellamy paused – even reading the name caused him pain. And the idea that she was unhappy... it was unbearable. Nonetheless, he forced himself to continue reading Lady Griffin's description of her daughter's despondency, torn between the urge to rush to her side and a malicious satisfaction that at least she too was suffering.

_...not even a delivery of freshly printed articles on anatomy. She keeps herself busy, of course, but her heart is not in any of the activities she used to derive joy from, and she has started taking frequent and long walks which do nothing to alter her disposition. You know me to be a champion of healthy, vigorous walks myself, but in this weather, their constitutional effects are questionable at best. Alas, I am afraid our daughter is quite set on imitating the mournful heroines of just the kind of sentimental novels she used to sneer at and drown herself on some muddy country lane. If you have any idea what to do; if you can think of anyone who might cheer her up, please let me know posthaste, or I will have to resort to locking her into her room just to keep her dry for once._

_With sincere worry, your loving wife Abigail._

_Post Scriptum: Just as I am about to send this to you, Jackson reports that the young man who has introduced himself as the heir presumptive to Arrow House has been seen going down on one knee before Clarke in the garden. I have not received report of her answer, nor have I been asked for my parental blessing, but her mood remains unchanged. If a proposal has been uttered, it did not add to her happiness – though perhaps to her determination to make herself unhappy for the sake of someone else's happiness. I fear a very stern talking-to is in order, but would much prefer if some other means could be found to dissuade her from the unhappy match._

Bellamy lowered the letter with shaking hands and a dry throat to stare at a grim-looking Lord Griffin.

“I am afraid my wife's report is correct: Lord Wallace has indeed been by just this morning, and now we know what he came to speak to me about.“

Bellamy was suddenly gripped with the impression that his heart was slowing down and ceasing to pump blood through his body, as if struck down by the mere news of Lord Wallace's apparently successful suit.

“Unfortunately, I was feeling a little under the weather and could not receive the man. I am confident, however, that he will be back tomorrow – and equally confident that my health will again not allow me to see him, and that it will remain weak and treacherous until you have had time enough to fix whatever requires fixing in this situation.“

“I?“ Bellamy heard the bitterness in his own voice. “I doubt that I have the power to have any effect on your daughter's wellbeing.“

“Ah, but on that count I believe you are wrong.“ Lord Griffin looked at him, blue eyes trapping him in place in an eerily familiar way. “I do not know what exactly transpired between you and my daughter. But I do know that, whatever it was, it is making you both unhappy. I therefore suggest you leave for Arrow House immediately and pay Clarke a visit – perhaps you ought to tell her some of the things you told me the last time you visited this house.”

Bellamy clenched his teeth as he remembered the passionate speech he had made to Lady Clarke's father on behalf of his courtship – and the look on the older man's face when he had bade him sit down and informed him of her departure.

“I do not believe she wants to hear them.”

“On the contrary, my friend – I believe she _needs_ to hear them.”

But the painful memory of Lady Clarke's abandonment, the fact that she had literally fled at the prospect of marrying him, still made it difficult to imagine speaking to her. “And I am not sure I can bring myself to say them again. Perhaps her other suitor will be just as well-equipped to cheer her up.”

Noticing that he had just included himself in the number of Clarke's suitors, Bellamy felt a momentary irritation.

“You know the man?”

“Only from afar. But my sister informs me that Lord Wallace has been courting your daughter since he first arrived in London a few weeks ago, and had been encouraged in his suit.”

Lord Griffin's surprised expression became overshadowed with worry. “That may be so, but I doubt there is any real affection for her within him. At the very least, he cannot have a strong wish to join our family.”

At Bellamy's inquiring look, Lord Griffin explained:

“As you may know, Lord Wallace stands to inherit my title and Arrow House after my death. But I tried to prevent that very thing from happening. When my uncle died and I learned that he had tied the entire estate including Arrow House to the title, which Clarke will not be allowed to inherit, I tried to contest the will. Clarke had never been anything else than a dutiful great-niece to my uncle, whereas Lord Wallace had never bothered to maintain relations with the family unless it suited him or there was money to be inherited. And yet Clarke and my wife should be in danger of destitution after my death purely because of their sex? I could not accept it.”

“So you fought Lord Wallace on the terms of the will.”

Lord Griffin nodded, a pained expression on his face. “And lost, but it seems that was still not enough for Lord Wallace. At the very least, he is determined that not one Farthing should be lost from his expected fortune, and so by marrying Clarke, he makes sure that her marriage portion does not fall to anyone else.”

Such motives, if they were the only ones behind Lord Wallace's suit, did not bode well for Clarke's future happiness indeed, and for all his anger at her flight, Bellamy could not stand the thought of letting her be unhappy.

“Something must be done,” the Earl declared, and Bellamy agreed. Accepting the unspoken task behind the words, he laid the letter down with calm determination, bowed quickly before Lord Griffin, and strode to the door. The Earl's parting words reached him halfway out the room:

“Bring her back, son.”

He would.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Farthing was the smallest coin at the time, making up one fourth of a penny, and the internet tells me you'd need 960 Farthings to make up a pound. Because Cage Wallace is a greedy asshole.  
> Were Jake's parting words just a tad melodramatic? Hell yes they were. No one in this story does anything without being just a tad too dramatic. (Or in Clarke and Bellamy's case, fucking way too dramatic literally all the time.)  
> This chapter is not as well-rounded as the last one, I'm afraid, but it does move the plot forward. (To a chapter I have written nearly nothing of....)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the second-to-last chapter of this story (I probably won't be able to resist writing an epilogue). It features the following, very important elements:
> 
> 1\. Bellamy's point-of-view  
> 2\. Gratuitous information on the history of landscaping and the shift from the French to the English garden  
> 3\. FEELINGS! (Overblown to gigantic proportions because those two idiots cannot do anything without being needlessly dramatic.)

Bellamy set out for Arrow House like a man going to war; with the strong sense that lives depended upon the outcome of the coming battle. And they might indeed, for just before his departure, he had received some insight into Lord Wallace's character that made him all the more desperate to save Lady Clarke from the man. But though he was not to be swayed in his determination, Bellamy was nonetheless rather nervous as he approached her beloved home. Napoleon and all his armies could not hold a candle to Lady Clarke, and no French sails on the horizon had ever made him as anxious as the sight of Arrow House taking shape before him.

This time, he was welcomed more warmly, even if only by degrees. Lady Griffin smiled tersely, said:"I see my husband understood my letter correctly", and sent him right on out to the garden.

Lady Clarke had often mentioned that the gardens were the part of Arrow House that she loved most, and Bellamy had found he agreed when he had occasion to walk there on their short stay on the way back from Gretna Green. Although Bellamy appreciated the order and formality of the older, French part of the garden, with its accurately drawn lines, geometrical forms and pleasing symmetries, he knew Lady Clarke preferred the newer, more naturally styled area. He could certainly understand why it spoke to her: the sloping lawns, winding lanes, overgrown little copses and thickets and picturesque ruins inspired by long-gone eras would speak to her artist's eye as well as her freedom-loving spirit. And even Bellamy had to admit to being quite charmed by the way the garden paid homage to the achievements of antiquity in the small edifices scattered about the landscape.

It was in one of these structures that he found the woman he had been looking for, standing with her back to him under a Greek pavilion. When he first laid eyes on her, he froze completely, remaining in place as he took her in for a few moments: a lonely, slender figure against a backdrop of green and blue, the sky having finally cleared and the sun chasing off the last clouds. The pavilion (called a monopteros, if he correctly recalled an article he had recently read) had been erected on a little hill, and with its Doric columns and classical measurements, he could not help but think it a temple, a shrine built to some old goddess of wisdom and war.

But of course, the woman before him was no goddess. She was as human as he, and as vulnerable to rushed decisions and cowardly acts. And yet for all that she had hurt him he was aware, now more than ever, of how irrevocably he was hers.

Having thus fortified himself, or rather, having realised that there was no way to avoid this confrontation without forsaking her forever, he marched on, calling out her name as he climbed the steps to her temple.

Lady Clarke turned, and for a moment, her face was awash with different emotions, changing and shifting as swiftly as light falling upon the shards of a chandelier. Then she exclaimed:

"Lord Blake!"

The formal expression felt like a slap to the face; cold and meaningless now that he knew what his Christian name sounded like falling from her lips.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" Her face had settled now, every bit of honest emotion pressed back behind the polite mask he knew so well - though it had not been put on for him for a long time. He wanted to wipe it off her face, or better yet, kiss it off.

"Your father sends me to inquire into your well-being."

"He sent you on a fool's errand then. As you can plainly see, I am as healthy as can be."

"Maybe. But your mother sends alarming reports of your comportment."

"My mother is a mother. If I am not coughing or sneezing, she will find some other, imaginary ailment to worry about."

Her voice was as smooth as her features now, and so bright and chipper it hurt his ears. He remembered comparing her to a marble statue when they had first met, and that comparison seemed more than apt once more. But just the thought of seeing her condemned to a life of stone, of smooth smiles and even smoother excuses... It was wrong: She should be all bracing smiles and loud laughs and unbridled life - not some marble Aphrodite, damned to an eternity of cold, unchanging beauty.

He was going to put a crack into the marble before it entombed ber entirely.

"I'd say she is right to worry. You left London rather abruptly."

There. Now she would have to admit that there was something amiss. 

But once again, Bellamy had underestimated his opponent.

"And I do apologise for that. But I trust my father informed you of my departure?"

"He did." At this point, Bellamy was so enraged he had altogether forgotten what he had come here to do: not to demand an explanation of her feelings, but to offer insight into his. "He did not, however, explain why you lied to me so shamelessly."

There it was, the crack in her armour he had been aiming to inflict: she closed her eyes, only briefly and yet long enough to let him know he had landed a hit. It was a victory of sorts, though it held no triumph. But he was too far gone now to see that, and so he pressed on.

“I had not pegged you for a cruel, deceiving person. At the very least, I had thought you had a good heart.”

And now like some mythical creature, Lady Clarke came to life: checks flushing, eyes blazing, she stepped right on up to him to spit:

“And what do _you_ know of my heart?”

“Less than I thought I did, it seems.”

“And more than you should, if you have enough information to speculate about its wishes. But it makes no difference what my heart wants."

The fact that she seemed to honestly believe that enraged him more than anything else.

"Does it want Lord Wallace?"

The question came out harsher than intended, and her lip trembled for a moment. But in true Griffin fashion, Lady Clarke was not forfeiting yet.

"Lord Wallace is willing to ignore the rumours about my supposed ruination, and for that I am grateful. Marrying him is my one chance at keeping Arrow House and making sure my mother will be provided for after my father's death.”

The words sounded hollow, as if she had learned them by heart, and Bellamy became all the more determined to keep her from continuing on the path she had set out on.

“Then it should interest you to hear that Lord Wallace is the one who spread these rumours in the first place."

Her eyes widened in surprise, but a hint of mistrust remained. “How can you know that?”

“Jordan told me. Lord Wallace apparently saw us get into the carriage and leave town together, and spent the following days spreading the most shameless tales about you.”

“But why....?”

“Perhaps to make sure that, should you return unmarried, you'd have no choice but to accept his offer."

Bellamy could see her taking in the words, could glimpse a trace of anger sneak onto her face.  
Detachedly he noticed how strange it was to see her angry at someone other than himself. But this was the moment to make his point and drive it home. "Knowing this, you cannot still intend to make yourself unhappy by marrying the man.”

But her resistance, whatever was fuelling it, was not worn down yet.

“And his plan worked, did it not? I do have no other choice.”

“Yes, you do." He took her hand, never even minding when his voice took on a pleading tone. "I cannot give you Arrow House, but I promise to give you everything else you could ever wish for.”

Clarke shook her head, as if trying to will away the tears he could see glistening in her eyes. It was unbearable: to be unhappy and see her just as unhappy, and yet not be allowed to ease her pain.

And then she finally, finally put an end to his confusion by telling him what kept her from accepting his offer.

“I cannot let you ruin your prospects by marrying me out of pity.”

Bellamy froze for a moment, unable to comprehend her words. This was what had held her back? His _prospects_? He may not have done a very good job expressing the "depth of his feelings", as Octavia had put it, but...

“Pity?! You think I would marry you out of _pity_?”

“What else would it be? Anyone who knew of my situation would not so much as consider marrying me – unless they had your heart, and your determination to save everyone even from themselves.”

“If that is what you think of me, after all our time together, you know very little about me; or yourself. Otherwise you would know by now that pity has nothing to do with my suggestion of marriage. And you would be sure that no one who knows you could ever do anything for you solely out of pity. No, Clarke – where you are concerned, love and admiration must always come into it.”

She was staring at him, wide-eyed and incredulous. But she did not protest, and she had not fled yet. That was something, enough at least to encourage him to continue.

For all that he had been scared of disclosing his true feelings, now that the word "love" had once been uttered, it became much easier to step closer to her, take her hand, and continue speaking of it.

"I love you, and I'll not accept any reason why I should not marry you except one, and that is if you do not think you could find it in your heart to love me back, in time."

There, he thought defiantly. He had poured out his heart, all that was in it, and was now quite laid bare before her.

And Lady Clarke.... laughed.

The sound was half-choked by a sob, but it was nonetheless a laugh. And though it should irk him that his second proposal of marriage was met with outright amusement, Bellamy felt relieved at the reaction – at the very least, he had managed to cheer her up.

" _In time_? Oh, you silly, _silly_ man!"

With that somewhat offending remark, she leaned up and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, lingering long enough for him to register how soft her lips were, how warm her skin, how fragrant her hair. His hand twitched where it held hers, but otherwise he held perfectly still - this was her move, and she the one who would decide what should happen next.

What happened next was that she made the world stop turning with just a few little words.

"I already love you." Her eyes fluttered about nervously for a moment, then settled on him. “And leaving you behind was a mistake I felt most keenly. But I thought you only offered marriage to save me from ruin."

Bellamy's heart felt like it would burst, while his mind kept racing from one thought to the next: It had all been a tremendous misunderstanding – one that had almost led to tragic consequences. She had only left to save him from himself. Had been willing to go as far as to marry an unloved man just so he could be free of her. Had communicated none of these fears to him and run away – a facet of the story which, by all rights, should make him feel worried and offended still. But he felt none of these things; not anymore. Because there was one thought that outweighed all others: _She loved him._

He felt giddy all of a sudden. “I would have offered to marry you for that purpose regardless of my feelings. But the offer was not as selfless as you apparently thought it was. And", he smiled impishly, "proposing a marriage of convenience would hardly have required me to kiss you.”

Lifting her hand to his mouth, he pressed a gentle kiss to her wrist, and watched delightedly as it caused her cheeks to flush.

“It would certainly not make me lie awake at night, thinking up excuses to kiss you again.”

Her cheeks were flaming now, but she held his gaze, and he was overcome with affection. She may not be as debauched as she liked to think, but even in her embarrassment, she would not signal defeat by hiding her face.

“Well, I dare say you need no excuses now,” her voice was firm, defiant almost, but the smile tugging at her lips was soft and lovely, “seeing as I am your fiancée.”

He could not say who moved first, but not a moment after she had uttered the words, and he comprehended them, they were kissing again. And for all that they had kept their true feelings to themselves and suffered for it, they were communicating now; each touch, each sigh, each press of lips speaking of how separation and misunderstandings had weighed on them.

Now, there were no more misunderstandings; their movements were as smooth and harmonious as they were when they danced. When she raised her arms to sling them around his neck, Bellamy responded by closing his arms around her in turn, pulling her close with his hands on the small of her back. When he increased the pressure of his lips, she sighed softly and slipped her fingers into the curls at the back of his neck, the scrape of her fingernails on his scalp sending pleasant shivers down his spine. When he opened his mouth under her lips, she responded by gently, probingly running the tip of her tongue along the seam of his lips until he groaned into her mouth, his mind running away to that hopefully not far-off-moment when they would do the same as husband and wife, no longer needing to restrain themselves as they kissed and explored and loved to their heart's desire (at least in the privacy of their own home).

For now, however, Bellamy thought it best to muster up some measure of self-discipline. As much as he enjoyed every second of having her pressed against him, soft and pliant and yet full of the kind of passion that had so often shone through her controlled exterior, he did not intend for them to start out the same way her last, catastrophic romance had started: with false promises and a suitor who took too many liberties.

He was about to pull away when she did the same, her flushed face worried as she exclaimed:

"Lord Wallace!"

The name worked as well as anything to douse the fire of his passion, but in light of Bellamy's resolution, the distraction was a welcome one – and having no more reason to doubt her feelings, even the fact that she exclaimed another suitor's name in the middle of a passionate moment could not unsettle him. He merely smiled teasingly.

"You are not changing your mind, are you?"

She laughed her bright laugh. "No. I simply remembered - I will have to break off my engagement to him."

"I can do that, if you'd rather not..."

She shook her head. "It is only right that I tell him myself.“

Another flash of pride - of course she would not shirk that responsibility. She was much too brave for that.

"People will talk, however. We may be shunned."

There were few things Bellamy could have cared less about than what London society thought of their union, or the unconventional way it came about.

"Let them talk – let them chase us out of London if they must. I shall be happy as long as I have you...", he pulled her close once more, meeting no resistance, "in my arms...", he pressed a kiss to her cheek, "smiling...", another kiss, this one closer to the corner of her mouth where it curved up under his ministrations, "and my wife."

His next kiss, as she had no doubt anticipated, landed right on her lips. She welcomed it, opening her mouth under his and eagerly pressing against him, and Bellamy forgot all about restraint and decency. After all, they were standing on a hill in bright daylight; things could not possibly turn _that_  improper. And for all that he looked forward to finding out every thing that might make her sigh and moan and tremble under his hands, for now, this was enough: Holding her, and kissing her, and knowing that he would get to do the same for a very long time to come.

 


	21. Chapter 21

Once Lady Griffin had given her blessing, the news of Lord Blake's successful suit was speedily dispatched to London, where it was received with a variety of (mostly positive) reactions: Lord Griffin, upon reading the letter, only smiled beatifically and lit a particularly fine cigar with the air of a man who had fulfilled an important mission and now had every right to celebrate. Lord Blake's sister reacted with an excited shriek, followed by an equally excited hug for her fiancé who was standing next to her, followed by more excitement directed at the very same man, of which the messenger luckily witnessed very little. And Lady Kane, when informed of the news, let out the triumphant "Ha!" of a woman who had known something important all along and had finally been listened to.

In short, the couple's friends and family were not only happy for them, but happy for a much more satisfying reason: the certainty that they had, each in their own small way, helped bring about the fortuitous event.

There was but one deviation from the norm, and that was Lady Clarke's scheming would-be-husband: Upon receiving Lady Clarke's letter, Lord Wallace directed his considerable ire at the poor messenger in such a manner that the postal services henceforth refused to deliver any sort of mail to his house - an incident which, just two years later, would cause Lord Wallace to miss an important letter from his solicitor and sink so deeply into debt that he agreed to sell the rights to Arrow House to Lord and Lady Blake.

But for now, the two in question knew nothing of such distasteful behaviour, and would not have cared in any case. Now that all misunderstandings had been cleared up and their friendship not only restored, but enriched by sincere protestations of love and the happy prospect of married life, the two were quite wrapped up in spending every waking moment together. The library was explored, to joyful exclamations from Lord Blake that made his fiancée smile fondly. The gardens were made ample use of now that both mood and weather had cleared up - except where Lady Clarke had so far preferred panoramic spots with wide open views, she now led her guest to the more picturesque and secluded hideouts scattered about the gardens. And from time to time the two even remembered that their impending nuptials might require some planning, and set about said planning.

Unfortunately, since the bride-to-be got distracted every time her affiancéd smiled, and he in turn found it hard to focus on her words rather than on the perfectly shaped lips that formed them, it was a slow process. But eventually, they were decided on a wedding date, the parish vicar was instructed to read the banns, and a small number of their friends were invited to join them at Arrow House for a simple wedding.

Given the circumstances of their engagement, Octavia had even offered to postpone her own wedding so that her brother and her friend could return to London a perfectly respectable married couple. But knowing how excited Octavia was about being wed, Clarke not only refused the offer, but decided that she had abandoned her friend to prepare the event alone long enough. Married or not, it was time to return to London and face the scorn of the ton. (Or, as Clarke was secretly planning, simply stay away from social gatherings and hole up at home instead.)

But if Clarke had expected to end the season the same way she had begun it, she was wrong: Octavia excitedly insisted on taking her to see all the latest patterns, cuts and textiles that had arrived for the fall, and Jasper, upon hearing of their arrival in town, insisted on organising some manner of festivity in honour of their engagement - "just a small gathering, with one of the parlours cleared for dancing perhaps, certainly nothing too outrageous", as he promised. But Jasper had always loved a big event, and by the time the evening in question rolled around, an entire floor of the sprawling Jordan residence was dedicated to all manner of entertainment, and what seemed like all of London was crammed inside.

The moment Clarke, with her father and Lady Kane, stepped up to the entrance door, every fibre of her body was clamouring for her to turn back and flee before anyone could take note of her arrival. But just as her panic reached its peak, there was a steadying hand at her elbow, a familiar voice by her ear.

"Just say the word - I shall play the pirate and abduct you."

Clarke knew before she turned her head whom she would find at her side, and yet the sight of Bellamy's smile sent a shock of delight through her. He held out his arm and she placed hers atop it, her courage returning instantly. Together, they walked into the fray to face the accumulated judgement of London's elite.

And so it came about that every gossip-monger who had procured an invitation just to get a good look at the Griffins'  fallen daughter with her head bowed in shame, was instead presented with a perfectly composed, perfectly happy young lady. Head held high and demure smile firmly in place, Clarke graciously accepted every congratulation on her engagement without giving the curious well-wishers any of the additional information they were so clearly seeking after.  And by her side the entire time was Lord Blake, glowering at everyone who so much as threw an overly curious look in her direction.

Since they had already caused their fill of scandal, Clarke and Bellamy decided to do exactly what they had been invited here to do: enjoy themselves, celebrate, and be happy in the selfish, careless, endearing way that is the privilege of young lovers. They danced a shocking number of dances together, no longer required to restrict their favourite activity for appearance's sake. They played at Whist and dices, each dedicating every win to the other. And they made a new, rather unexpected friend: a Lady Collins, who had been forced to attend the event alone due to her husband falling ill.

Upon being introduced to Lord Griffin by the well-meaning Lord Jasper, the lady had apparently demonstrated a knowledge of lighting apparatuses and chandelier riggings that had greatly impressed the Earl. Her father's excited face told Clarke what to expect even before he actually told her that Lady Collins was to dine with them the very next day. Clarke felt a fear she had long thought vanquished crawl up her throat once again, but before it could overwhelm her, Bellamy addressed Lady Collins, drawing her attention for the moment. He expressed his joy at meeting the lady with such sincerity that Clarke felt confident that her husband-to-be not only greatly esteemed the lady, but trusted her as well. And so Clarke tentatively smiled at the woman she had unwittingly wronged, a smile that was half an offer of friendship and half a plea for forgiveness - and was smiled at in return.

Within the week, Lady Collins had been adopted into the Earl's circle of friends and had proven herself to be a very charming woman in possession of what could only be described as the mind of a genius. And though she was still a little shy around her, Clarke no longer felt like she had anything to fear from the lady, who never even mentioned her husband and seemed primarily interested in discussing the newest mechanical inventions with Lord Griffin.

There was nothing, then, to dampen the joy of watching Octavia and Mister Lincoln get married. The bride, in a mauve-coloured ball gown that had never been worn to a ball, was beaming the whole day, and her husband was looking at her with all the love and adoration expected on such an occasion, and then some.

And finally, it was time to leave London behind and return to Arrow House to begin her new life as a married woman. It would of course have been more appropriate to move to Flint Hall, the Marquess's ancestral home, but the old house had fallen into disrepair, and while Clarke looked forward to the project of overseeing the necessary renovations, it was not a house fit for a wedding. Lady Griffin had a suite of rooms prepared for them at Arrow House instead, and Clarke was secretly glad to be having her wedding here, at the house that was not only the scene for a very happy childhood, but that had also seen the moment her luck had turned, her life been changed for the better with just one small admission from the man she could now be sure to have by her side for the rest of her life.

Together with their friends from London and Southampton, where the _HMS Tobago_ was once again at anchor, arrived a mild, sunny fall, and their day of joy was a whirl of light and sun and colours. But amid all the red, orange and yellow, Clarke's favourite colour was the deep brown of Bellamy's eyes when he held her gaze during the ceremony. On a day full of music and laughter, Clarke's favourite sound was her husband's voice. And far warmer and more pleasing than even the golden autumn sun was the touch of his hand in hers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it - officially, this story is over. (*sniffle*)  
> Inofficially, there is now an outtake from this story that takes place where this chapter ends. (The smut. It's the smut. The wedding night, to be precise, for all those of you who kept yelling at me to have them bang already.) Since I don't want to move the rating up for this entire story, I published the outtake separately, so it's part 2 in the "Big Damn Regency AU" series. Have fun!  
> And in conclusion: Thank you, everyone, for reading and commenting and being generally amazing. I had so much fun with this story, and I hope we'll suffer through many many more maddening, slow-burn Bellarke stories together.


End file.
